Rain
by natiwati
Summary: Two strangers find solace in one another as they are bound together through a series of rainy days.
1. Part I

_The following story is rated M for language, sexual content and other adult themes. _

* * *

**.: Rain :.**

.: a YumiKuri story :.

* * *

The rain fell in fat, heavy droplets that pelted violently against the tin roof from under which she stood, taking refuge. Soon, the loud _pitter-patter_ sounds of the water rattling against the metal became her soft, little song. Like a fervent lullaby. Rain was always so fascinating, so unforgiving and relentless. Uncaring of the damage it caused to the world that it sent scrambling underneath.

Ymir smiled.

She loved rain. She loved anything related to nature. Nature was wild, untamed. Nature _always_ prevailed, no matter how hard humans fought against it. Flowers sprout and bloom to their own accord, the river currents never stop flowing in the direction that they choose, the sun never ceases to shine as it pleases. The Earth never stops spinning. _Never. _Not for anything, not for anyone.

It's a simple truth: Humans can never outlive nature. Humans _come_ from nature itself; and yet, for reasons she will never understand, they still seek to destroy it.

_How pathetic._

**Disgusting.**

Ymir shivered slightly from the cold, brought her arms around her torso and hugged her hooded frame, an unlit cigarette still lingering uselessly on her lips. She'd forgotten to light it, had become too lost inside her own thoughts of dread, of longing.

How fucking useless this life seems to be, she thought. You wake up, go to work, bust your ass to contribute to a society that couldn't give two shits about you and then return home, barely struggling to make a living, only to repeat the same reverberating cycle to be able to call yourself a part of this sorry, bureaucratic, compromised excuse of a society.

Ymir removed the cigarette from her lips to yawn.

_Boring._

**Fucking boring**, this whole world was.

"Ymir," a baritone voice called behind her. She turned to look, immediately feeling the bitter taste of animosity bubble up inside of her.

It was her boss. She hated her boss. His thick, yellow eyebrows that always furrowed in displeasure at her presence, at her _being_. Just another person who could care less for her existence, and yet she had to work for _him_.

"What?" she asked blandly, reaching for the lighter in her pocket to light the cigarette that still lingered in its rightful place upon her lips.

"We need you."

"Well, I'm busy." She rolled the little wheel of the lighter a few times with her thumb, small sparks of flames that failed to come about popping a few times before she produced one successfully, held it to her cigarette and inhaled deeply. As she took her first long drag, she closed her eyes, felt the smoke flooding her lungs and her pores and just filling her with that dark, warm feeling her body had already become so addicted to. Nicotine.

Her boss kept his eyes fixed on her face, blinking, unimpressed when she exhaled the smoke through her nose, held up her hands as if to gesture_ "What?_".

"Your break is over," he replied simply, and Ymir wanted to ram her boot right into his smug mouth. "It's been over for a few minutes now, actually."

"I'm almost done," she hissed, averting her gaze once again to the rain that poured onto the world around her, knowing full and well she had already lost the argument.

"Get back in, Ymir._ Now_." Her boss turned around swiftly, returning into the building where she'd already surrendered a vital chunk of her youth just to haul useless shit around for less than nine bucks an hour.

What the fuck does it matter, she thought as she glared down at the ground, briefly wondering all the different ways she could damage that pretty, blonde head of his. What difference does it make? She could just vanish into thin air at any second and nobody would still give a fuck about her existence...

_So what's the point?_

Ymir pulled down the hoodie from her head as she took in her final drag, glanced at the rain one last time before exhaling the smoke along with a capitulated sigh.

Finally, she took the cigarette between her fingers, dropped it onto the cold ground, and crushed it under the weight of her soiled boot.

* * *

That same day, Historia Reiss had run away from home.

Her mother—sleeping soundly on the couch—had not been keenly aware of her own daughter's endeavors as she hauled what scarce amounts of her belongings she'd managed to jam into her small, princess-themed suitcase. The mother later awoke to find the pearls on her neck to have been stolen, and an empty bed where her daughter should have been sleeping.

Historia could almost hear her fiery, scorching wails, even from all the way inside her quiet, peaceful seat in the train where she now sat, gazing out at the rain that washed down the frigid glass of the window. She could hear the clattering of items being thrown across a room,_ feel_ her body jump with fear at the crashing of glass exploding against solid cement walls.

But all that was behind her now. Historia left her mother for a reason. She ran away—she_ had_ to.

Clutching her belongings tightly against herself, she caught the scent of home that still lingered on the princess suitcase she'd owned since she was a child. The memories suddenly came prowling back, scathing her sore muscles and fresh bruises as she was once again reminded, as she once again recalled.

She recalled her mother's sleeping form and the way her upper lip twitched when she carefully relieved her of the expensive Hawaiian black pearl necklace; the necklace some foreign stranger had bought her in exchange for God knows what. The same necklace Historia sold to a merchant in exchange for enough cash to buy herself a train ticket to the farthest place money could get her.

She recalled her mother's fury, the way her fists pounded violently against her, cornering her into the nearest wall, blow after blow tearing away at her tiny frame. She remembered how she'd cried, pleaded, begged to _stop, mommy, stop!_

She recalled her mother's scorn. Her reverberating howls as she seethed, _it would've been better if you were never born. You are a failure. A mistake. The worst mistake of my fucking life!_

She recalled how her own mother threw herself over the couch before—whether from intoxication or just sheer exhaustion—falling into a deep, soundless sleep. Like a baby. Like if she hadn't just beaten her own daughter into a pulp. Like if she hadn't just left her shattered and recoiled, trembling by herself in the corner of the room.

She recalled her own prayers, her own keens, her own pleading for help from any higher being to please, _please, please make it all stop._

But God never answered.

Help never came.

And so Historia rose to her feet, dried the damp trails of hot tears that marked her face and for the first time in her life, decided to do something about it.

Her mother's loud screeches still lingered in her ears, and Historia felt the sting of fresh tears threaten to well up in her eyes before promptly screwing them shut and muttering quietly to herself:

_"She's gone. It's over. She can't hurt you anymore. She's gone. It's all over. She can't hurt you anymore." _

Over and over and over again she whispered these words to herself, until all traces of Historia were dead, burned and disintegrated. Until all that arose from the smoldering ashes was a newer, better, braver person than the one that had died so many times before.

* * *

At 9:24 the next morning, Ymir was already back at work.

That day, _especially_ that day, she did not want to be there. Her back hurt, her arms hurt, her legs ached with the dull, stinging pain of soreness. A soreness brought by too much partying, too much drinking, too much fucking, too much taking refuge in the arms of strangers who truly, in the end, could not give a shit about her.

Ymir sighed, the headache throbbing away at her temples blurring her vision and nearly rendering her fucking _mad_. She stopped, dropped the heavy package she was carrying and straightened up before rubbing her knuckles over her pulsating temples and groaning from the pain.

She was hungover. A little **too** hung over and _fuck_, does she need a cigarette right now.

Looking over her shoulder, she saw that her boss was nowhere to be seen. She checked the windows in his office, the men coming out of the restroom, glanced at every corner and end in her surroundings and saw nothing.

He was nowhere to be seen!

A tiny smile dawned upon her lips as she felt her body for a lighter and a cigarette. Finally, reaching into her rear pocket, she felt the small envelope she'd sneaked into work, the three tubes faint but real as her fingers traced over them for a moment, sending the message to her wasted brain that _yes, they'__re still on me. They haven't left me. The cigarettes are still there._

Ymir glanced around her once more, just because she had to make sure, just because her brain was taking a little longer to process things, before sneaking out the back door of the building and finding release in her delicious, perfect little sin.

* * *

_"That can kill you, you know."_

The soft, angelic voice suddenly shook Ymir awake. It had been a feeble whisper into the loud drumbeat music of the rain that fell around her. Ymir thought for a moment that it had been a mere conjuration from her beaten mind. Finally, raising her gaze from the rain drops that crashed against the ground, Ymir followed the voice until she found—squinting stupidly for a moment as her sore eyes adjusted to the sight—a very small, fragile-looking blonde resting against the wall beside her.

The girl offered her a friendly smile, almost faint, almost nonexistent, and Ymir wondered if it was just her brain fucking with her again; but then the girl dropped her gaze and stared sullenly at the suitcase she held propped between her legs. Finally, after a few more drowsy blinks, Ymir could register the sight that fully manifested before her and, as if a sudden wave had just come crashing into her, was nearly swept right off her feet.

Maybe it was just the hangover, maybe it was the fact she hadn't eaten anything since she last vomited the contents of her stomach into a random trash bin in the street the previous night, or maybe it was just the lack of sleep that had her practically zombiefied, but Ymir's heart somersaulted within her chest once she grasped the ethereal beauty of what stood right before her.

The girl was small, a little **too** small, but her blonde hair was pulled back into a neat little bun, small hairs that had escaped the gorgeous composition curled with dampness from the rain, tiny beads of the water falling off them and onto the ground, her clothes, down her neck. The girl sighed awkwardly to herself, wiping away with the back of a shaky hand a drop that had traveled down her forehead, before Ymir suddenly realized she had been staring stupidly at the poor girl for over half a minute.

Finally, her organs **_zapped_** and her limbs shook and her lips parted and she gasped because _now_ she was awake. Ymir realized she had been holding her breath, so she inhaled some of the cigarette's toxic fume, feeling the girl's eyes stare as she exhaled the smoke and held the tube between her fingers, brought it up and gestured to it with her other hand.

"Some of us are already dead, honey," she quipped with a small cock of her brow, and Ymir saw the girl offer her a soft smile. She probably thought she was joking, but there had been no sliver of humor laced through her words.

"I guess that's true," the girl noted quietly, her voice only a feather away from a whisper. That's when Ymir caught the small bruise on the side of her cheek, the faint blotches of pink and purple that marred her otherwise smooth, milky skin. Ymir took another drag, not once averting her eyes from the fragile girl that fidgeted almost uncomfortably only an arm's length away, before she finally found her voice again.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, and the girl jumped as if she hadn't expected her to keep acknowledging her presence.

"Uh"—a pause, a deep breath—"well, I'm just... Um, I'm just taking refuge from the rain."

Ymir glanced around. "Well _obviously._ I figured as much."

The girl dropped her gaze almost dishearteningly, and Ymir realized her words must have come out a bit harsher than she had intended. She cleared her throat before speaking again, careful this time to sound more resilient. "What I mean is, why _here_? This is private property, you know."

"Oh!" The girl's eyes grew wide, and that was the first time Ymir could witness just how blue they were. They were fucking _mesmerizing_, almost shimmering through the faint fog caused by the rain. "I didn't know that. I'm sorry!"

"Don't apologize to me. It's not me you're bothering."

The girl let her gaze fall onto the ground once again, and Ymir fixed her eyes on her trembling form. She must be cold, she thought. Her white dress shoes were dirtied from the mud, her elegant clothes dampened from the rain and they stuck to her frame in a way that highlighted her lithe figure a little too enticingly.

Ymir swallowed.

The girl was fucking gorgeous. **_So_** fucking gorgeous. Something about her sparked a flame within her she simply couldn't fathom. She was entrancing. Those blue emeralds she had for eyes, those pink, plush pillows she had for lips, the roseate paint that colored her otherwise pale cheeks. All of it orchestrated so beautifully together, like a symphony, like a sad song, and she was _haunting;_ fascinating and fragile and gentle in such a way that made Ymir want to crumble into pieces and claim her as her own and just _find her_. Find out _why_. Her purpose, her being, what rooted deep within her depths and pushed her forward and why, _just why_ she had to be here _today,_ with_ her_, out of all the days and all the places and—

Fuck, the hangover must have _really_ been getting to her head.

"So what's your name, kid?" Ymir uttered after a while, the rain around them becoming milder as a pocket of sunshine peeked its way through the gray clouds in the sky.

The girl was silent for a moment, rummaging through her own thoughts. Ymir stared quietly, briefly wondering if the girl was stupid enough not to know her own damn name.

"Christa," she voiced finally, her small frame lifting at the name like if she'd been pulled by an invisible string from above. "Lenz. Chrsita Lenz. And I'm not a kid."

"With a K?"

"Excuse me?"

"Your name. Is it Krista with a K?"

"_Ch_. Christa with a_ Ch_."

"Hmm." Ymir flicked the ashes from her cigarette.

"And yours?" the girl asked with a smile. A tiny smirk crept up Ymir's lips, despite herself.

"Ymir."

"Ymir?" the girl echoed, eyes wide.

"Is there a problem?"

"No, no," she waved her hands reassuringly. "It's just..."—a short giggle—"that's quite an odd name."

"Says Christa with the _Ch_." Ymir scoffed, bringing the cigarette back between her lips. Ymir gestured to the childish princess-themed suitcase she still clung on to before asking, "How old are you, anyway? Like, _twelve_?"

"Wha— I am _not _twelve." The girl—Wait, _Christa_—looked at her muddy shoes before muttering, "I'm eighteen."

"Oh, _Wow_." Ymir rocked backwards in her heels, feigning her amazement. Christa didn't seem to notice.

"Yes, so there's quite a difference," she retorted, and Ymir shrugged a shoulder lightly.

"If you say so."

Silence finally befell them as the rain seemed to die down, leaving in its absence a very cold, eerie presence that brought chills upon them both. Christa's skin was visibly overcome by goosebumps as they stood silently for a while, waiting... Waiting.

_Waiting for what?_

Ymir finished her cigarette, suddenly realizing that she wished she hadn't so that she could spend more time with this girl, but Christa peeked up at the sky before sighing (whether from relief or disappointment, Ymir was unsure) and pulling up the handle on her suitcase.

"Well, I guess it's time to get going." The girl smoothed out her skirt, pulled a damp lock of flaxen hair behind her ear before looking up at Ymir and giving her a slight bow of her head. "It was a pleasure meeting you, Ymir."

Suddenly, Ymir's entire body froze stiff. Unsure, uncertain, she felt the abrupt waves of panic that aroused from within her and voiced—before she even realized what she was doing—for Christa to _hold on!_

Christa halted on her feet, staring back Y with startle and confusion, entrancing her once again as she felt herself drowning inside the crystalline blue of her eyes. A beat, and then Ymir cleared her throat, adjusted her shirt, composed herself before opening her mouth and asking, "Would you like to go somewhere with me?"

_What?_ Just—what? **Fuck**, Ymir.

Ymir cursed silently to herself as she watched Christa shift uncomfortably and look back into the sheen, puddle-dotted street that stretched out aimlessly before them. Immediately, Ymir felt the regret build up from the pit of her gut. _Fuck, _she thought as her headache suddenly returned, blinding her senses and throbbing away violently at her temples so damn _torturous_, resonating with the venomous thoughts of _you fool. She doesn't want you. What the hell do you think you're doing? Leave her alone. You're wasting your time. Again. Always. Why do you even bother?_

Christa hesitated.

Ymir bit her lip.

Time hung slow and arduous as Christa struggled to composite her words, to articulate her upcoming rejection.

But then suddenly, that angelic, fragile voice rose again against the silence, bringing chills down Ymir's spine when Christa's eyes found their place on hers and a genuine smile decorated her gentle, rosy lips.

"**_Sure._**"

* * *

Ymir had never run so fucking fast in her entire life.

That morning, she _flew_, returning to her locker inside the building to fetch her wallet and her leather jacket, not even bothering to clock out of work as she sprang out through the heavy crystal doors like her own life depended on it.

* * *

_"Whoa!"_

Christa gasped and gawked at the world around her, blue eyes growing wider and wider with amazement as she marveled at the life that teemed within the city. Everywhere she looked there was light, sound, music, _people_. She had never seen so many people gathered into one place in her entire life, and the sight filled her with wonder and excitement, like a small child discovering something new for the first time.

On the other hand, crowds brought Ymir great displeasure. She grumbled quietly under her breath at a child that nearly rammed himself right into her for no apparent reason. From where, or _to where_ he was running was unimportant, and she would've shouted out profanities to the poor kid if she hadn't remembered that Christa was right there behind her.

Turning her head to look over her shoulder, she saw the smaller girl just two steps behind, struggling to keep up as she hauled her heavy luggage behind her. She looked almost comical, more like a little kid than a young woman as her heels clanked audibly with each step over the sidewalk, her eyes taking in every move and sound around her like some sort of nervous, frantic cat.

Ymir held back a smile, adjusted her leather jacket before randomly announcing, "We're here."

Christa jumped, nearly tripping over her own feet as she brought herself to an abrupt halt.

Without bothering to offer any kind of explanation, Ymir lifted Christa's suitcase effortlessly with her hands, ignoring the shorter girl's objections as she carried it up the steps and through the door into what looked like a small, quaint restaurant.

Immediately, the thick aroma that wafted mercilessly through the air spiked Christa's appetite.

_Food._

The smell of cooked meat had Christa's mouth_ watering, _her head dizzy and light as she struggled to recall when was the last time she'd consumed a meal. Her hand reflexively covered her stomach as a low growl erupted from her gut. Ymir, who hadn't seemed to notice, still held the luggage in her arms as if it weighed nothing, her golden eyes searching around the room for something.

Christa wondered how a young woman could possess such strength, immediately taking mental note of the new attribute she now wanted for herself.

"Ymir!" a low voice called, and Ymir finally set the suitcase down on the ground as a tall, lanky man made his way towards them.

"Hello, Bertholdt," she said casually, and Christa nearly craned her neck all the way back to look up at the man who now stood before them. He was_ huge!_ Towering over her like a building. Easily the tallest man she had ever seen.

Ymir, however, seemed as calm and unimpressed as she had been when they first met only a few moments ago. She handed the suitcase over to her tall friend, telling him to put it someplace safe and make sure all the dirt on it was cleaned off. The man stared at her in confusion, before sparing a glance at Christa, a tiny smile forming on his lips as he finally nodded and trotted away into the kitchen.

Panic slightly set ablaze inside her as she watched her belongings being carried away, but she was so blindingly overcome by hunger that she hardly cared for the suitcase at all. Ymir gave her a reassuring nod, gestured for her to follow as they made their way to the most isolated table.

Sitting down on the warm leather seats, Christa sighed with relief at the plush that her exhausted body sank into, suddenly remembering how tired she was, how **direly** in need of sleep.

Ymir, too, felt exhausted, but the sight of the girl that fidgeted silently before her shocked her nerves awake, nullifying the throbbing in her head as she focused her vision directly onto her.

"So, is that your friend?" Christa asked her, and Ymir took a second to understand who she was talking about.

"Oh, _him_?" She shook her head slightly. "No, he's not. He just owes me big time."

Christa's eyes grew wide, not sure how to process the information before Ymir waved a hand dismissively and added, "Don't worry. Your stuff is safe with him."

Almost imperceptibly, Christa nodded her head, and menus were set before them on the table. It took Ymir two seconds to decide what she wanted, and she set the menu aside dismissively before taking off her leather jacket and placing it over her chair, her chin perched in her hand as she stared blankly into space. Christa peeked her eyes over the menu, studying the sight of the girl that sat absently before her.

She was a mystery, that one, and Christa wasn't sure what to make of her. Her short brown hair fell disheveled around her face, her callused hands and bitten-down finger nails indicating she wasn't one to take much interest in fitting into what society considered to be attractive, or woman-like. There was an independent fire blazing constantly in her gilded irises, even as she stared dully out at nothing in particular. Her skin was smooth and tanned, no decorations except for a few scars and a faint constellation of freckles that dotted across the skin of her nose and cheeks, some splaying out rebelliously into her bare lips, her forehead, the back of her hands.

In an instant, Ymir's eyes were on hers, and Christa nearly jumped from the shock before returning her gaze onto the menu.

She felt like crying, suddenly realizing she had no money left to buy herself food. She had been so caught up in getting as far away from home as she possibly could that she hadn't spared a thought for what would undoubtedly have to follow. How childish of her. _How foolish_.

"Can I get you guys anything to drink?" the waiter, Bertholdt, asked them. Ymir nodded her head, laying out her order, drink and food and everything, before they both looked at Christa, who was still staring blankly at the words in the menu.

"And you, Miss?" he asked her. Christa felt her voice disappear within her throat.

"Uh—"

"She'll have what I'm having," Ymir interrupted, grabbing both menus and passing them on to Bertholdt who scribbled quickly into a small notepad before taking them and excusing himself to walk away.

Ymir looked up to find Christa staring at her, an ambiguous expression written on her pallid face.

"What?" Ymir shrugged.

"I'm fully capable of ordering my own food, thank you."

Ymir fought back against an amused smile, her features retaining their icy mask as she teased, "I know. It's just whether you'd be able to pay for it that I'm not so sure about."

Christa dropped her gaze and Ymir quickly hated herself for not knowing when to shut her mouth. She parted her lips to protest, to add an assuaging comment to follow up her crude remark, but Christa beat her to it.

"I'm not even that hungry," she asserted, her hands trembling visibly as she brought them up to smooth unruly locks of hair behind her ears.

Ymir stared at her, eyes oozing with incoherent sadness as she tried hard not to pity the poor girl.

_She was lying_. Ymir knew well that she was lying. She had seen enough cruelty in this world to know when a person was famished, and Christa definitely was. She had seen enough suffering to know when a person stood upon the fragile thread of despair, and Christa definitely did.

She had _heard_ the poor girl's stomach growling, for crying out loud!

Ymir took a deep breath and dared herself to do something she'd never done before in her entire life—she apologized.

"I'm sorry," she spat, and the words felt so foreign on her tongue that she nearly gagged as a reflex.

The look on Christa's face made it all worth it, though. The features of her face—they _melted_. She offered Ymir such a warm, caring look that she nearly choked on her own oxygen as her breath became clogged within her throat.

"It's alright," Christa assured her, blinking sleepily before rubbing her eyes. "I'm not mad." Her voice was so light, Ymir felt like she could just lie in it and let it carry her into the clouds.

Soon, their identical drinks were set before them and they both drank, the cold liquid screaming life into their throats as it slowly quenched the dying thirst they were both enduring. Christa looked up at Ymir and smiled, gasping for air as she drew her lips away from the straw. Already, the sugary drink had brought the color back onto her cheeks.

Ymir couldn't help her crooked smile, thinking to herself how odd life sometimes turned out to be as she gaped with quiet admiration at the giggling girl in front of her. She eyed the faint bruise on her cheek, wondered where she could've gotten it from. Probably from falling miserably, Ymir concluded, watching the childish way the girl's eyes crinkled up when she laughed.

_But what about the bruises on her arms?_

Before Ymir could delve further into her train of thought, Christa's lips parted, the sharp intake of her breath swiftly replaced by the sound of her voice. The words that followed were like music to her ears, the same fervent lullaby that had breathed life into her being moments ago when she'd been admiring the unforgiving nature of rain.

The words that followed were words she had never heard once in the entire expanse of her existence:

_"So, Ymir. Tell me about yourself."_


	2. Part II

_"Rain. Always so merciless and unforgiving, true to its own nature and law. Uncompromising for its way of being, for the way it is. __I__t just is."_

* * *

**.: Rain :.**

.: Part II :.

* * *

Outcast. Orphan. Unwanted. Social pariah. Plague.

The words drifted up into the air, floating within their invisible bubbles before popping incredulously right before them, leaving Ymir no less than completely _appalled_ at how easily the information was pouring out of her. It was as if confessing her life story to this stranger wasn't the least bit fucking **preposterous**.

But she spoke. She spoke and spoke and spoke like she had never done with anyone else before, setting with her words the very tale of her sad existence down in stone.

She'd even told the girl her birthday, how her parents had left, the fact she once was homeless—had to live within the wretched slums of a dirty city, struggling each day like mice inside a sewer scrambling for food.

Christa's eyes grew wild with awe, wonder, concern; the swaying shifts of her emotions perfectly reflected in the cobalt crystal of her irises.

Those eyes; the color of rain. They reflected the world around her like a mirror and Ymir swore for a second she could catch her own face looking back, her own reflection dawning within Christa's gaze, only augmented and seeming less severe.

Almost... _beautiful_.

The entire world must look beautiful when seen through Christa's eyes, she thought clammily, searching the blonde girl's features for any sign of disapproval at her words. The complete opposite was carved into her expression, though. Her sapphire gaze glistened with the sudden apparition of tears.

"Are you crying?" Ymir scoffed, and Christa wiped her eyes with the back of her hands, shaking her head slightly as she fought back a few snivels.

"It's just"—she choked—"It's just so sad, Ymir. Your sadness, your ache... I understand all of it and—and I just _feel _it, you know?"

A chuckle escaped Ymir's lips. She scratched her cheek before offering an ambivalent, "Sure."

Glancing down at the empty plates on the table, Ymir noticed their surfaces were practically scraped clean as a result of their previous feast. Each of the girls had ensured to scarf down even the smallest sliver of their ample-sized meal. The gripping pains of hunger were a torment Ymir had already grown accustomed to, and which Christa was only now discovering for the first time.

The brunette sipped silently from her straw as she watched Christa struggle to compose herself, wincing a little when her hand pressed a bit too hard against the small bruise on her cheek.

"So," Ymir started, setting the drink down on the table and slumping back into her seat. "Now it's your turn."

"M-my..." Christa's voice shook, "my what?"

"It's your turn. Now you get to tell me about yourself."

"Oh," Christa looked down at her hands, sniffling quietly as the aftermath of Ymir's anecdotes still shook her. "Well, what would you like to know?"

"Anything."

"But that's so vague."

"Alright." Ymir leaned forward, propping her forearms over the table so her face stood merely inches away from Christa's. Suddenly, a foreign feeling overwhelmed her when she looked into Ymir's eyes, their golden orbs bright and unforgiving, like the sun. And just like the sun, they rendered a person blind if they stared into them for too long.

Christa looked away sheepishly before Ymir pressed, "You can start by explaining why you're walking around in the rain with a little girl's suitcase. I've been racking my brain about that one."

Suddenly, Ymir caught the way the smaller girl's eyes just _dropped_, like if she had been in silent mourning all this time and her words had brought new light onto the fact. It took a few moments before Christa spoke again.

"Everything I own," she began slowly, drawing out each word like it took all the strength within her. "Everything I **own**... is inside that suitcase."

For a second, Ymir's eyes stared dully at the girl, not entirely processing her confession until her brain literally fucking _jumped_ and her heart jolted violently within her chest.

Wait. What?

Her golden eyes grew wide, unmasked, unguarded. "You mean..." Ymir's voice was soft, straining to be as gentle as she could vehemently will it. "You mean to say that _everything_ you _**own**_... is inside **that** tiny, little suitcase?"

"Yes," Christa nodded plainly. "Everything."

Suddenly, it all made sense.

_The girl was a fucking runaway_. How could it take this long for Ymir to figure it out? Looking at the bruises, and the beaten, worn veil over her eyes—the way her shoulders slumped almost involuntarily. Defeated. Destroyed. The girl had gone through the fiery depths of hell and only _now_ she could see that?

Well, what the fuck, Ymir.

"Please don't pity me," were Christa's sudden words, and they startled Ymir so greatly she didn't even bother to conceal the pained expression in her face. "_Please_," Christa whispered, closing her eyes, "_**please**_ don't pity me, Ymir. Somehow, I will find my strength. I'm not asking for help. I don't need anyone to save me. I am whole as I am. I'm just... I'm just finding my way right now, okay?"

Christa's voice had trailed off at the end, transforming into what sounded more like a silent prayer than anything. Judging this, Ymir decided the words were meant more for Christa's own encouragement than for herself, so she pursed her lips into a tight line, clenched her jaw as the familiar throbbing in her temples threatened to split her head in two.

It took a moment of silence and a refilling of their drinks before either of them spoke again.

"I won't," Ymir was the one to utter, her voice breaking Christa's trance. The brunette shrugged mildly when bright, blue eyes landed on her face, searching, confused, ushering further explanation. "I won't pity you, Christa. It's not my place. I don't even know you, really. In fact, I honestly doubt we will ever see each other again after today, so don't worry about it." Ymir's eyes were cold as stone, the fire in her gaze freezing over and turning into ice. Her head inched closer as she said, "It will never be my place to judge you, Christa."

At that split second, Christa's eyes flickered with a twitch of vulnerability, so slight, so fleeting; merely passing like a shooting star. But then the blue in her eyes grew callused, cold, and Ymir could almost applaud from how proud she felt when Christa's brows furrowed sternly, and she nodded, "Good, then."

After that, Christa offered no further explanations. Ymir didn't bother to bring up the topic again.

* * *

It was already noon when they made their way to pay the bill. Ymir shrugged on her jacket, ignoring the vibrating beeps coming from her cell phone within her pocket. It was probably just her fucking boss asking where she was, only _now_ noticing she had been missing.

"How was everything?" Bertholdt asked them, punching in some numbers in a big hunk of a machine that had Christa's eyes growing with curiosity. She'd seen those kinds of machines before on TV, read about them in some of her books. _Cash registers_, they called them, and she pieced the evidence together, taking mental note of her new discovery.

"Good," Ymir shrugged, handing him a twenty dollar bill and telling him to keep the change. "How's your boyfriend?"

Christa's eyes grew big at Ymir's question. _Boyfriend?_

"Oh, Reiner?" Bertholdt chuckled, giving Ymir an incandescent smile. "He's good. Same as always. By the way, thanks so much for what—"

"Don't worry about it," Ymir waved a hand dismissively. "Just hand me her stuff so we can get the hell out of here."

"Right." Bertholdt nodded, promptly making his way back into the kitchen to fetch Christa's belongings.

They stood silently for a while, Ymir dozing off again and staring at nothing in particular as she messed with her hair, trying to arrange the unruly locks into a ponytail. When her arms lifted up, the hair tie pinched between her teeth while she ran her fingers through her scalp a few times, Ymir's shirt lifted visibly in the front, revealing a naked expanse of tanned skin. Christa's eyes flicked unconsciously to the girl's stomach. She caught a glimpse of the faded scar that was drawn over her hipbone, the smooth muscles that stretched over her abdomen while her hands moved behind her head.

Sheepishly, Christa quickly tore her eyes away. She hoped Ymir hadn't noticed her staring, recalling the way those blazing eyes always seemed to pick up everything around them even when they weren't looking.

But Ymir smirked. Satisfied. She'd done it on purpose.

"Here you go." Bertholdt brought the suitcase and placed it on the ground before them. Christa noticed that he too carried it with effortless ease. Every piece of herself rested within the constricted walls of that case, and yet everyone else seemed to carry it as if it was nothing. Only she was the one weak enough to struggle with it, apparently.

After looping her hair through the band of the hair tie a few times, Ymir lifted up the suitcase and made her way out without saying another word. Christa, however, gave the tall man a small bow of her head and a smile.

"It was very nice meeting you, Bertholdt."

Shocked at the girl's sudden kindness, Bertholdt's eyes grew wide. Regardless, he waved a hand and smiled, not knowing the younger girl's name, "You too. Have a good day!"

Christa wallowed on the low timbre of his voice, took a mental image of the man she felt she would never see again. It felt good to talk to strangers, she thought. They all seemed to be so kind.

Once they both descended the steps and landed on the sidewalk, they noticed the sad, empty mood that possessed the city as the rain threatened to return. The sky had grown gloomy and obscure, tainted with darkness by the presence of colossal gray clouds. The heavens grumbled with the faint cries of thunder, the air still and cold, awaiting the coming of yet another impending storm.

Ymir stood next to the suitcase, eying Christa silently as the small girl made her way towards her.

"Well," Christa sighed. "I guess this is it."

"Yeah," Ymir's expression was unreadable, "I guess so."

"Thanks so much for the food. I really owe you one."

"It's no problem," Ymir uttered before she could think, and the words that flew out of her mouth surprised her. She'd never done anything for anyone without expecting something in return, but viewing the way the smaller girl's eyes just glistened with childish gratitude, Ymir couldn't bring herself to tell her she actually _owed_ her anything.

"Well," Christa looked around, her eyes searching for nothing in particular. "I should be going now."

Ymir didn't twitch a single muscle. She merely stared as Christa struggled to lift the handle of her suitcase and commenced to walk away. After a few steps, Christa turned around and gave Ymir one of those bright, angelic smiles that drove her—she'd decided already—_fucking crazy_.

"Thank you, Ymir. It's been a real pleasure talking to you. I hope we meet again."

And with that, the girl simply turned around and walked away.

* * *

A second passed.

Then two.

Ymir's body froze stiff, the adrenaline of panic bubbling up inside her, creeping up slowly through her spine.

She watched helplessly as Christa's figure grew smaller and smaller, as she left her—simply _went away_. Like if she hadn't just told her her entire life story. Like if she hadn't just seen the girl cry. Like if she hadn't just discovered she was running away from home, had no place to go. Just like that, she shook her world, entranced her vision, and then _left_, like everything else in life always does eventually.

Surrendering to the simple truth, Ymir turned around and made her way through the opposite direction, wondering swiftly what the fuck she was supposed to do now. Would she go back to work? Pretend that nothing happened?

Her phone beeped, vibrating within her pocket a few times.

Would she just go home? Smoke a few cigarettes and have a few beers and pass out in the couch like the useless, hapless lump she is?

Another beep, a lingering vibration. Someone was calling her.

She could just go to the bar down the street, even if it was still pretty early in the day. She could just sneak into the apartment next door to hers, find what she could steal from them. She could just go over to that one loser's house, the one that always waited patiently and adherent-ly, that always bowed to each one of her commands.

But...

**No.**

The phone still rang. Demanding. Persistent.

_No, no, no, no_.

She didn't feel like doing any of those things. She didn't feel like drinking or smoking or partying or fucking. What the fuck was wrong with her? _Ymir, get your fucking head together. What is up with you? What is it you want to do? _

_**What do you want for yourself?**_

Suddenly, Ymir stopped.

The phone in her pocket was no longer ringing.

Quickly, so quickly, like if she'd suddenly remembered she had something she still had to do, a deed that was yet unfinished, Ymir _ran_. She ran back to where the girl was walking. Ran after her like some sort of lost child returning to their mother.

It was ridiculous. She didn't have time to think, she didn't have time to process what she was doing because, suddenly, she saw that small figure walking by herself. That ridiculous princess suitcase.

"Christa!" Ymir shouted, but the girl didn't turn around.

"Christa! Chris—" she nearly tripped over a homeless man's legs. "Christa, wait!"

Finally, Christa turned around to face her, her face in a clear state of bewilderment. That's when Ymir felt her insides freeze.

Just what the hell was she actually doing?

"Yes?" Christa's voice was small, alarmed, and Ymir hunched over, her hands on her knees as she struggled to catch her breath. _Fuck_, all those cigarettes were catching up to her lungs and her head still hurt from that damned hangover.

Ymir gasped for air a few times, the blonde girl standing patiently as she watched her, waiting for her to stand.

Her voice came out in short, breathless intervals, "You... _you_... you need to... hold on... just a second... _please_."

Before Christa could open her mouth to respond, a fat drop of rain pelted onto her cheek. Surprised, she looked up.

_Splat_.

Another drop landed flat into the center of her forehead.

_Splat_. Another on her arm, a third splattering audibly against her suitcase.

"Hold that thought," Christa said, passing the suitcase over to Ymir and grabbing hold of her wrist. Without another word, Christa pulled Ymir forward. Soon, they were both running under the unrelenting shower of the rain.

Ymir felt ridiculous, hauling that fucking princess suitcase behind her as this tiny, blonde girl dragged her into the nearest building, but she was so incoherently honored by the fact Christa was holding her wrist that she didn't bother to muster a single objection.

By the time they scrambled under the roof of a random building, the rain was coming down in a violently whoosh. Christa sighed as she brushed her forehead with the back of her hand, wet locks of hair sticking to her face.

Despite the fact that she had just gone after this girl, Ymir found herself utterly speechless.

"Thanks." Christa drew in a deep breath, took the suitcase from Ymir's grasp and offered her a smile.

"Um," Ymir straightened her jacket, looked awkwardly to the side. "Yeah."

"So much for having it cleaned, huh?" Christa chuckled, looking down at the fresh mud and asphalt that had gotten on her suitcase.

Ymir nodded. Unsure. Uncomfortable. And then, there was silence.

It was long an arduous, much like the silence Ymir had endured after she'd asked Christa if she wanted to "_go somewhere with me?"_

Ymir sighed.

Christa shivered.

"Are you cold?" Ymir suddenly asked. Christa gave a small shrug.

"Yes, I am," she admitted, then Ymir's arm was already halfway out of her jacket before she could even realize what she was doing.

"Here" She handed her jacket over to Christa, and the girl gave an incredulous look, awe and uncertainty shining in the blue of her eyes. Ymir shook the jacket, insisting, assuring her it was okay to take it.

"Th—thank you," Christa stuttered, her voice soft as she slowly took the garment of clothing from Ymir's hand. Gently, she pushed her arms through one sleeve at a time while Ymir watched her. Immediately, Christa's body was overcome by heat. The jacket fit her nearly two sizes too big, but it was smooth and comfortable, shrouding her like some safe blanket, protecting her with warmth. _Ymir's_ warmth. She could smell the girl's scent on her clothing. A small tinge of smoke, a faint spice she couldn't quite put her finger on.

She gave her a thankful smile, and Ymir averted her eyes defensively without saying a word.

_Not good_, Ymir thought to herself. Something was definitely wrong with her today. Why was she doing all this? Why was she being so... kind?

The cell phone beeped one more time before Ymir opened her mouth and asked, "Christa, do you even know where you're going?"

Christa's eyes lingered on her face for a while, a river of emotions rushing through them. She took a moment before she lowered her head and answered.

"No."

"Do you have anywhere to go?"

"No."

"No family? No friends? No one to take care of you?"

Suddenly, Christa's eyes stung as tears threatened to break free, to tear down her fragile facade. She closed them shut and swallowed. "No."

"So you're entirely on your own."

"I am."

Ymir crossed her arms, staring silently at the rain that fell around them.

Rain. Always so merciless and unforgiving, true to its own nature and law. Uncompromising for its way of being, for the way it **is**.

_It just..._ **is**_._

"Alright," she suddenly spat. Christa's eyes were on her in an instant, her vision blurring. The brunette finally met her gaze.

Ignoring the tears that trickled down the angel's face, Ymir announced, "You're coming with me."

Astonished, Christa opened her mouth, but no words came out. It's as if she had suddenly forgotten how to speak.

"Don't even bother," said Ymir, glancing nonchalantly at the ground. "I pieced it all together, Christa, and I know what it's like. Even to this day, I still wonder who I might've been if someone would've just _helped_ me instead of leaving me to rot like a fucking corpse. I just can't do it. I can't leave you like that and then try to live with myself."

"But," Christa found her voice, "but I told you that I'm finding my way. I'm pushing through. I don't need any saving."

"I'm not saving you, kid," Ymir shook her head. "I'm only helping you. That doesn't mean I carry the burden of your life on my shoulders anymore than I did when we first met, you understand?"

Christa looked down at her suitcase, not even bothering to hold back her tears. "But still..."

They stood in silence for a moment, Ymir with her arms crossed over her chest, Christa looking down at the ground as tears streamed down her face. She felt so shameful, embarrassed. She wished the thick fog of the rain would just swallow her and make her disappear.

"It's only an option, Christa," Ymir soothed. "It's your choice. I'm not going to force you, but just know you have my help."

"Ymir," Christa looked up, willing herself to meet the taller girl's austere gaze and ask, "Why me? Why are you helping me? Why are you being so kind when you don't even know me?"

Ymir was quiet.

_That's right_, she thought. _I don't even know her._

But _**still**_. She couldn't help feeling like somehow, just somehow, she actually **did**. She actually _did_ know Christa! She knew her in that weird inexplicable way that strangers somehow already know each other, somehow already _know _even though they've already lived and made mistakes and done heinous acts that should brand them unworthy of such miracles and yet there she was, telling this gorgeous, fragile girl that she would help her even though she could hardly help herself.

Ymir dozed off, her eyes distant and occult before suddenly, a roar of laughter erupted from her chest.

Christa stared, worried, confused, and Ymir just laughed. She laughed hysterically at herself, at _all this_, at how fucking ridiculous the thoughts in her mind and the words coming out of her mouth were sounding.

"I know,"—she laughed some more—"I know, it's fucking odd isn't it? Why you?"

Ymir laughed for a few more seconds until Christa's expression grew annoyed, then she willed herself to stop, to breathe, to just calm down. Wiping the tears from her eyes, Ymir scoffed.

"To be honest, I have no idea. I mean, I don't even understand it either! I don't know the reason, Christa—It just is."

The blonde girl fell silent for a moment, recoiling into her shell as Ymir hugged herself against the cold that was now nipping at her skin, a consequence of giving up her leather jacket.

"Do you understand," Christa started, slowly drawing out each word so that Ymir could absorb them entirely, "that if you help me with this I would owe you my entire life?"

For a moment, Ymir stared silently at her. Then, her lips curled up and formed that crooked smirk that was already becoming quite familiar to Christa.

"Well, then," she snorted. "Wouldn't that be nice?"

A smile. It dawned on Christa's lips despite herself before she laughed, the sound breathing life into Ymir's fucking _soul _once it seeped into her ears.

The two girls stood in silence for a moment, except that this time, the silence was welcome, serene, and Ymir watched as Christa carefully patted a hand over her suitcase like if it were a person, like if she were assuring it of something. Watching the way the girl's lower lip quivered and fresh tears ran down her cheeks, despite her stubborn smile, Ymir felt something _tear_ inside her chest.

It was... **daunting**.

This girl, with her bruises and her tears and her tiny body, it made Ymir wonder why bad things always happened to good people. This girl was kind, soft, gentle, undeserving of the trifles of the world. She looked feeble and broken, and still there was a persistence in her eyes and a way that she carried herself that demanded that she fight, that she push on and thrive despite the circumstances of her existence.

It was beautiful, and Ymir wondered how such a person could exist. How a person could remain compassionate even after life had tried so many times to break them. How they could remain animated and hopeful, brave enough to run away in pursuit of something better, of something _more_, despite their limitations.

Ymir saw Christa, and then saw herself.

They were so different, and yet entirely the same.

Finally, Christa wiped away a few stray tears before looking up at Ymir. If it wasn't because it had already done so countless of times throughout that day, Ymir's heart would've skipped a beat when Christa suddenly smiled at her and said:

"Alright, then. Your place it is."

* * *

Books.

They were everywhere.

Slowly, Christa made her way through the front door and into Ymir's apartment, her eyes growing wild at the gorgeous display all around her. The place was small, humble, so surprisingly messy it made her giggle, but what truly impressed her was the shameless array of books that decorated every visible room.

"Christ," Ymir grunted as she set the suitcase down on the ground. "What the hell do you have in here, bricks?"

She sounded breathless after climbing up the steep flight of stairs, and Christa gave her an incandescent grin, noticing the way the suitcase's weight finally caught up to her.

"Something like that," she said, before turning her eyes to admire the view of the splendor once again.

"Excuse the mess and what not," Ymir muttered, closing the door behind her and setting down her keys.

Christa didn't mind. She didn't mind the mess at all. Back at home, she had never been allowed to witness (or create) a mess. Everything was always tidy, everything was always so spotlessly clean. Mistakes weren't allowed in her old home.

And neither were books.

"You like to read?" Ymir asked her, noticing the way Christa ran her fingertips over the blurb of a random book.

"Yes," she said, her voice a sudden whisper. "Yes, I really do."

"That's good, then." Ymir stretched her arms, the joints popping audibly as she worked through the chill in her bones. "I've got plenty of books, just be careful not to bend the pages."

For a while after that, the only music in the room was the drumming of the rain that fell outside, the faint sound of car horns and tries running over wet pavement. The water washed down the windows and blurred the world outside, caging both of them within the walls of Ymir's apartment like two willing prisoners.

Eventually, Ymir told Christa to make herself at home (that's what you're supposed to tell guests, right?) and the girl sat down on the large couch, yawning quietly as her body sank slowly into the cushion.

"Where would you like your stuff?" Ymir asked, referring to the pink suitcase that still stood by the door.

"Oh!" Christa felt she was being rude and quickly rose to her feet. She turned to look at Ymir, who stood patiently by her belongings. "Anywhere would be fine. Would you like me to help you?"

"No," Ymir grunted again, lifting the blasted suitcase, "I got it."

She carried the suitcase into the bedroom. Probably avoiding to drag it over the floor for fear that it might dirty it, Christa thought, as she allowed herself to sink back gradually into the sofa.

"I'll put your stuff in my room, if that's okay," Ymir shouted out to her.

"That's fine," Christa swooned, feeling the grips of exhaustion finally clasp her. She fought to keep her eyes open, remembering Ymir stood by in the other room, remembering it was hardly any hours in the afternoon.

Ymir, however, took this as her chance.

She decided to tidy up her room. Frantically, Ymir threw candy wrappers, crunched up papers with random people's phone numbers on them and other useless crap into a plastic bag. She picked up her dirty clothes (taking a while as it had all been carelessly thrown about her room) and shoved it into a hamper. She organized the books that laid uselessly on the floor and placed them neatly over her dresser, remembering that Christa liked to read.

Okay, she thought. This should be good.

Just as she lifted her foot to walk, her boot caught into something and she nearly tripped and landed square on her knees. Annoyed, she looked down to find it had been a pink, lacy piece of underwear. Picking it up and bringing it to full view, she realized...

Shit.

That wasn't her underwear.

After promptly shoving that as well into the plastic bag, Ymir made her way out. She avoided looking at Christa's direction at all, quickly shuffling past the living room and into the kitchen before stuffing everything hastily into the trash can.

Once that endeavor had been over, she finally went into the living room and was surprised by what she found.

Laying on her side with her hands sandwiched between her head and the couch, Christa yawned sleepily. Her eyes were closed, her lips parted slightly, her chest rising and falling with every deep breath.

Ymir stood silently for a moment and watched her. She noticed the way Christa's skirt had fallen a bit above the side of her thigh, revealing a giant, purple bruise that made her stomach turn.

"Christa?" she called softly, and the other girl sighed.

"Yes?"

Ymir took a moment, bringing herself closer, afraid to sit near the girl for fear she might frighten her, wake her. Christa's eyes were still closed when Ymir asked, "Why did you say yes?"

"To what?" Christa's voice was faint, nearly absent.

"To staying here. With me."

"Hmm," Christa hummed, then was so silent Ymir thought she had fallen asleep.

"Because I trust you," the girl finally replied.

"Why?"

"_Shhh_," Christa shushed her, "I'm trying to sleep."

Despite herself, Ymir smiled. Genuinely, she smiled.

Still, she had more to ask. She finally willed herself to sit on the sofa by Christa's feet and slowly began to remove her white pumps one by one, carefulas not to be too harsh. She noticed the pale, pink paint of her toe nails and the red, irritated skin caused by wearing the arduous heels for too long.

Christa hummed sleepily with approval when Ymir set her bare feet down on the couch gently. Neatly, she placed the girl's shoes over on the floor and heard her produce a long, tired sigh.

"Hey, Christa?"

"What?"

Ymir hesitated, but decided to go on. "What's in that suitcase?"

She saw Christa smirk before sighing again. "I'll show you tomorrow, okay?"

They remained silent for a while. Finally, Ymir decided to just wait for Christa to fall asleep, her finger tracing circles absently over the bone of her ankle.

Christa didn't seem to mind. She smiled faintly before asking her, "Anything else?"

"Just one last thing."

"Shoot."

"Christa," Ymir paused, looking at the dark contusion that marred the side of her pale leg. "Why is your body all covered in bruises?"

At this, Christa's eyes opened slowly. Ymir still traced her finger over her ankle, and the girl stared blankly into space, all traces of sleep seeming to have deserted her.

And then Ymir felt regret. Had she gone too far? Picked at a bone she shouldn't have? But the girl looked nearly asleep. She didn't think she would even answer her.

Finally, Christa pursed her lips tightly before pulling down her skirt to cover the bruise. Drawing her foot out of Ymir's grasp, she turned over on her other side and curled into a fetus position, coiling away from the brunette that stared worriedly at her soon-to-be-sleeping form.

Ymir didn't believe the words when she heard them.

"I fell."

* * *

That night, Christa slept the longest she ever had in her entire life.

Ymir, however, found it hard to sleep.

The rain had already died down by the time she was in the shower, the drops of water beating numbly against the skin of her bare back as she stared blankly into space. Ymir had checked her phone, read the text messages and amounts of missed calls numerous times before her brain could finally grasp it, before she could finally understand.

The hangover was gone. The adrenaline was gone. Nothing stood within reality except for the girl sleeping soundly on her couch and the reverberating messages that still flashed on her cell phone screen.

The messages lingered as she dried herself and slipped on some clothes. They lingered as she draped a blanket over Christa, even though she was still wearing her leather jacket. They lingered as Ymir laid herself on the floor beside her, let her eyes fall shut and her body drift into that torturous state between the calamitous rattling of thoughts and the absence of sleep.

They lingered that night, until Ymir realized the weight of what she had truly done.

_That's it. _

_Don't ever brother coming back here. _

**_You're fired. _**

* * *

**A/N: **Dear God, I told myself this would only be a two-shot but here I am, not finished yet. Woops. I guess this means this is a three-shot? Is there even such a thing? I don't know. Anyway, just one more chapter. Thank you so much for reading and for your reviews! They seriously mean the world to me!

**PS:** I just had to do it. I had to make Reiner and Bertholdt a couple. Also, Christa is confused as to why a man would be dating another man, since she has never heard of this happening before, so I guess I kind of figured those two would be the best to set out the example.


	3. Part III

_"Lost, she decided. She was lost. Except now, she guessed, perhaps even in a good way."_

* * *

**.: Rain :.**

.: Part III :.

* * *

"Come find me."

The words are an echo, tearing away at the silence like a pair of scissor's gliding through a piece of cloth.

"When you're lost or alone, come find me. I'll be right here. I'll be waiting."

Her father's voice slowly ebbs away, consumed by the abyssal darkness that surrounds her. Christa can't see. When she opens her mouth to speak, to object, her voice becomes lost within her throat. A strangled cry is all that she can manage as the shaky hands of a child reach out for their dad. To touch him. To find him.

But he's not there.

It's only when she sees the skin on the back of the child's hands that she realizes they're actually her own. _No, please, _come her desperate pleas. _Please, don't go._

Panic slowly creeps up her body, tears burning in her eyes as she is left only to guess her father's movements. Her ears pick up on the sounds of a suitcase's wheels rolling over the hardwood floor, the opening of a door, the rattling of keys, and her mother's muffled sobs as she lays helplessly on the ground only a room away.

"I have to go, sweetie." She feels a set of lips peck her forehead gently. Her father's whispers are a warm wisp of wind against her skin, "When you're old enough, you will understand. I have to go now. I have to go."

Her hands reach out again, only now to finally reach something. She grabs on to the soft fabric of his collar, pulls intently on it as if the gesture were enough to make him stay. Color is slowly returning to her vision; a faint pool of blue, then two, and she swears she can see her father's eyes. Christa blinks a few times, the world around her turning into focus.

And he's there. He's right there in front of her, his face merely inches away, the stubble on his cheek harsh and real under the soft skin of her fingertips. The tears finally spill, first from Christa's eyes, then from her father's. Still, she can't speak, she can only think, beg s_tay. Stay. Just, **please. Stay**._

"Please," her father pleads, working on her hands to release himself from their stubborn hold. "Please, try to understand, sweetie. I love you, but I can't stay. When you are old enough, come find me. I'll be here, baby. I'll be right here."

He slips a small piece of paper into her pocket, his new address scribbled on to the page. He ignores his daughter's desperate cries of _please, daddy no _and finally frees himself. With a short, swift movement his coat is quickly on his shulders. His hand clasps the doorknob, pulls, and then he's gone.

Just like that. _Gone_.

The door hangs slightly ajar. Christa is left to stare on miserably, the weight of reality finally sinking in when she hears her mother rise to her feet, feels a blinding **pang **behind her head. Her mind can't even process the blow, because she is turning, falling, breaking into pieces and the world is lonely and broken once again.

The world has suddenly gone black.

* * *

A gasp.

Blue eyes flash open in an instant, small body jerking itself awake with a violent jolt of reality. Stunned, Christa finds herself staring at a vast plane of white her scattered brain cannot decipher. A ghostly tremor quakes subtly through her system, and it takes her a moment to realize that the vast plain of white that she's been staring at is actually the ceiling. Feeling her mind shatter like a million shards of glass, she takes a deep breath, then another, finally willing herself to sit upright and peruse the specter of her surroundings.

It was only a nightmare. A dream. She no longer stares at a door that hangs slightly ajar, left behind by her selfish, incompetent father. Now, her eyes find their place on the girl that sleeps soundly on the floor beside her. Her dark hair a twisted, turbulent mess, her ardent eyes closed and peaceful, resting as the features on her face are left soft and unguarded.

Slowly, Christa's lips curve into a smile.

This is her reality now. She's not the little girl being abandoned by her father anymore. She's not the little girl passing out on the ground after her mother's iron fists find her. She's Christa now. Just Christa. Whatever else comes after that is solely up to her.

Her destiny is in **her** hands now.

With this thought in mind, Christa rose from the couch and onto her feet, cautious as to try not to step on the brunette that slept peacefully beside her. As she moved, a stunning ache spiked up her spine, a whimper nearly escaping her lips but she screwed her mouth shut and waited. Ignoring the pain that stunned her, she finally made her way into the bedroom, opened her suitcase and fished out a clean set of clothes. Before sneaking into the bathroom, she stole another peek at Ymir.

The girl still slept, not even twitching a single muscle. It was as if her figure had been carved out of hard stone; her slow, steady breathing offered the only notion of life. Christa glanced out the dew-kissed window and saw that rain no longer blurred the world outside. The sun shone bright and merciless, radiating in all its splendor as the day had merely just begun.

Once inside the bathroom, Christa shut the door behind her quietly. Carefully, slowly, she relieved herself from every article of clothing, her muscles _screaming_ with pain as she took off Ymir's jacket, worked herself free of every strap, every expensive piece of lace. Wincing slightly, she turned to catch a glimpse of her naked self in the mirror.

Christa would've cried.

Christa would've cried if it wasn't for the fact she had already cried enough. Staring blankly at the pale, feeble girl that stared back at her, she swore to never cry again. Not for her mother. Not for her father. Not for anyone who ever dared to hurt her. This was the first time she'd seen herself after the incident back at home, and although she'd witnessed the aftermath so many times before, she still felt utterly repulsed by her reflection in the mirror.

She was weak. Frail. Broken.

She was _**d**__**isgusting**__. _

Christa grimaced before sliding the shower curtain and stepping inside, turning the knobs to hot water and blissfully letting it wash down her frame. She sighed, relief slowly filling every corner of her being, and for a moment she pretended that the heat would work its way into her muscles and through to her bones. She pretended it cleansed her, purged her of all the dirtiness and sin that her existence carried along with it. She pretended the water washed away her bruises, which were only getting bigger and darker by the day. She pretended the water healed her, like some sort of purifying baptism, officially clearing her of all negativity and wiping the slate entirely clean.

Perhaps it was a bit crazy of her, but in her pretty make-belief lie, Christa found a small measure of peace.

* * *

Ymir awoke at noon that day to find her apartment utterly immaculate.

It was spotless. So spotless it took her a few drowsy blinks and some seconds of staring dully at her surroundings before she realized she wasn't still asleep. Every piece, every scrap, every carelessly flung book and fast food wrapper had been taken care of, and Ymir had never seen a place so damn_ clean_ before, let alone her own home.

"Christa?" Ymir called, rising slowly to her feet. The name felt foreign and surreal, like a mere conjuration from her brain and she wondered why she'd even uttered it. But then, just like the sun that was shining outside in the sky, she suddenly saw the girl without even having to look at her.

"Yeah?" The small girl peeked her head through the door frame of the bedroom, a stack of books piled up neatly in her hands.

Ymir blinked at her for a second, taking a moment to recognize the bright eyes that beamed back at her so innocently, so optimistic. "Did you do all this?"

Stupid question. Of course she had.

"Oh," Christa set the books down on the nearest table. "Yes, I did. I hope you don't mind. I don't really have any money so this is my best way of repaying you for everything you've done."

All Ymir could do was stare at her, her hands clinging absently to the thin blanket that draped around her frame. She noticed Christa had changed her clothes. She now wore a pastel long-sleeved shirt and jeans. Ymir tried not to lose it this early in the day, but Christa's hair wasn't in that ponytail anymore and her shirt hugged her just a tad bit too tight, insinuating the soft curvature of her spine and revealing the smooth skin on her collarbones.

And then, there was silence. Ymir swallowed. Her nose suddenly picked up on a robust, roasty scent she couldn't quite process, and it shocked her nerves awake.

"What's that smell?"

"Oh, that?" Christa started towards the kitchen. "I made coffee. You want some?"

"Coffee?" Ymir rubbed her eyes. "I didn't know I owned any."

"You didn't. I borrowed some from the neighbors. They're really nice people!"

Ymir's eyes widened. Shit. _The neighbors? _If only they knew how much Ymir had already stolen from them, and yet all Christa had to do was just _ask_.

She couldn't remember the last time she had coffee, probably a very long time ago as she recalled gagging on the black spit that had once violated her throat, but Christa's hands were on a mug, gently pouring coffee into it while Ymir sat herself down on the small kitchen table.

She should've said no, she should've said she _loathed_ coffee, but as if Christa's touch would somehow magically make it taste any better, Ymir accepted the mug that was being offered to her, took a whiff, tried hard not to gag, and visibly grimaced when the hot liquid slid its way down her throat.

"Strong, isn't it?"

Ymir nodded, involuntary tears forming in her eyes. She wanted to reach into her mouth and yank her tongue out, scrub it clean until all traces of the putrid grime were washed away and gone.

But then Christa sat next to her, smiled, and Ymir felt herself grow stiff. Like some sort of damn fool, she feels nervous, uneasy as the girl sitting next to her settles effortlessly into her seat. She's a stranger in her own home. Suddenly, Christa is the owner of the apartment and Ymir is the guest.

Slowly, Ymir takes another sip, just to please the eyes that watch her, just to divert her mind from her humiliating thoughts. The drink is like an atomic bomb, exploding violently within her mouth and she grips the arm chair tightly, praying for Christa to turn around before she spits it all in her face.

"So, I was thinking," Christa starts, eyes set on hers intently.

Ymir swallows, cursing silently as her voice is washed away along with the liquid burning its way down her esophagus.

"Before I show you what's inside that suitcase, I would like for you to get to know me better. If that's okay."

Silently, Ymir stares at the girl sitting in front of her. The words take a moment to sink in, but they are welcome, filling Ymir with a foreign kind of joy and excitement that has her shifting in her seat. Christa plays absently with a lock of her hair, her eyes searching around for something, although Ymir does not know what.

It takes a moment before the blonde speaks again.

"Because, well, you know..."

Ymir nods. Words are still too big of a challenge for her poor tongue, so she just nods, hoping this response is enough.

And it is. Christa looks down, suddenly sheepish as she smooths a lock of hair behind her ear and sighs. "I mean, my whole life is in there. And I know I told you I would show you today but, I don't know. I just don't feel comfortable right now."

"That's alright," Ymir blurted suddenly, and the sound of her voice surprises them both. "That's fine," she says, casually now, taking another sip of the coffee to brush off the nervousness rising within her, squeezing her eyes shut and cursing under her breath when she remembers she hates the damn shit. "I mean, we've got plenty of time, right? Unless you're planning on leaving already."

Christa slowly drops her gaze, but smiles all the same. "No," she shakes her head. "No, I'm not planning on leaving anytime soon."

Suddenly, golden eyes light up. Ymir tried to mask the amusement that grew inside of her, but she wasn't willing to try another sip of her drink to brush the emotions away.

Christa raised a brow, a playful smile dancing in her lips, "Unless you're planning on kicking me out already?"

Despite herself, Ymir chuckled. "No. No, I'm not thinking about doing that." She returned the same playful grin with a smug and quiet "At least not yet."

When Christa responded with a smirk, Ymir suddenly remembered the messages that haunted her the night before. She had been fired from her job, so now she truly had nowhere else to go, nothing else to do but to stay. Here. With _her_.

This girl. This girl sitting quietly in front of her, staring at nothing in particular as she becomes entranced by her own thoughts... **T****his girl** was her purpose now.

How fucking ridiculous was that?

She just met her and already she had become a vital part of her life. How could that even be? Ymir didn't bother to question, though. Life always seemed to work in such funny ways.

She wondered briefly what would've been of her now is she hadn't sneaked out of work to have that cigarette. What would've been of her now if she hadn't summoned the courage to ask this girl to stay with her? Ymir wondered what would be of her life today, in this very moment, if she hadn't planted her gaze upon those vulnerable, crystalline eyes and said _"Alright, you're coming with me"_.

Ymir shrugged mildly, shivering slightly from the cold and from the torturous aftermath of the coffee. A faint wisp of pleasure flowed up within her as it suddenly began to rain. It was preposterous, that rain. That morning, it fell, even though the sun was still bright upon the sky. It fell in heavy droplets that defied the laws of logic, unapologetic yet again. True to its own accord.

Both girls stared out at the rain through the window, and Christa wondered if there would be a rainbow outside. She'd read that once, that when it rained while the sun was out, the heavens would brace the world underneath with a rainbow. Slowly, her eyes fell on the brunette that still stared out in silence.

Ymir heard the blonde girl giggle, and when she turned her eyes to look, she was struck yet again by that damn, striking smile.

"You're right," Christa said cheerfully. "We've got plenty of time, don't we?"

* * *

Two weeks.

Two weeks is how long they stayed together.

Living with Christa had proven to be more of an adventure than Ymir had originally thought, and now that she didn't have work to worry about, she spent most of her time with her. They talked about everything and nothing, sometimes having so much to say that they would both blurt out their sentences at the same time and the words would scramble disastrously together. Ymir would always stop, allow Christa to continue. She always had better things to say anyway.

As for the times they weren't talking, they sat quietly in each other's presence, basking blissfully on the silence that cradled them as if not saying a word was the most natural thing in the world. Ymir didn't even bother wondering how that could be, because Christa would curl up quietly in the corner of the sofa, new book in hand, her eyes dancing back and forth as she read the words on the paper. It was fascinating. Every so often she would look up, give Ymir one of those incandescent grins, and then she would return to her book, reading peacefully by herself as Ymir slowly fell asleep beside her.

That was another thing. Sleeping. Ymir had learned to always sleep with one eye open, her body constantly in a state of alarm even while it was resting. She couldn't help it, it's just how she had learned to live. Among thieves and criminals and beggars, one rarely ever gets a chance to rest, but Christa's presence brought a calmness out of her that she couldn't quite understand.

Only once had she been awoken in the middle of the night, frightened when she thought she heard a weeping child, a soundtrack her ears had listened to so many times before. When she rose from the bed and gazed out the open door, she found Christa's silhouette sitting on the sofa, hunched over as she cried, her face buried in her hands and body jumping slightly with every gasp and sob.

Another nightmare. She had those often, and they sometimes shook her soul awake in such a way that had her shaking and bawling, unable to contain the terror that still shook within her despite her new reality.

_Post __T__raumatic __S__tress __D__isorder_, Ymir had decided.

She'd seen it happen before, and it only made her wonder even more what could've happened to Christa for her to be that way. Those nights, Ymir willed herself to lie back down until the crying stopped and she could hear Christa's steady, slow breathing, indicating she was once again asleep. Sometimes it would take hours, but Ymir never went back to sleep until she made sure the girl was sleeping.

One day, however, when the rain was falling harder than any other day in the week, Ymir thought it would be best to get away from Christa. She decided to spend the whole day apart from her, just be entirely by herself. The way she was supposed to, the way she was always meant to be—**Alone**.

Ymir feared her constant presence was growing old and that Christa would soon grow tired of her so, that day, she just left.

She tried to do the same things she always did: smoke cigarettes, take a few shots of liquor, wait patiently as the tingling took over her and she finally felt wasted, broken. Drunk. She spoke to the same people she always did, got into the same fights she always did, participated in all the same shit her petty existence had already grown so accustomed to and felt so overwhelmingly **bored** that she wondered for the umpteenth time what was wrong with her.

Seriously, though. What _was_ wrong with her? Everything, from the things that used to bring her joy to the things that used to cause her rancor, they were all so damn pointless.

That night, Ymir made it back so late into her apartment that she expected Christa would no longer be there. Perhaps it was the alcohol swimming in her brain, but Ymir thought she'd grown sick, tired, and had grabbed her suitcase and just left. She ignored the dark lump on the couch, convinced herself it couldn't be the girl sleeping, and threw herself over her bed, lifting up the covers over her shoulders without even bothering to kick off her shoes.

Reluctant and annoyed, Ymir went to sleep that night, utterly convinced that Christa was gone. But then a few hours later she felt the mattress dip on the other side of the bed as the weight of another person settled carefully beside her. She thought she was dreaming, but then she caught that faint, flowery scent. _Christa's scent_. She was still there! Curling up next to her without a word, falling asleep like a child nestled next to their mother.

When Ymir opened her eyes and turned to look, she found—to her own astonishment—Christa sleeping soundly. The silver moonlight that crept through the windows lit the side of her face, making it appear ghostly and impossibly white. Like a dream. Like a spectral apparition. Drunk and disoriented, Ymir reached out to touch her, her fingertips grazing the warm skin on her cheek, sending her brain the message that _yes, she's still here. __She'__s__ real. __She hasn't left me._

But... **Why?**

A steely pair of blue orbs suddenly appeared before her, and Christa was staring back. This time, she didn't offer another one of her smiles—she didn't even utter a single word. Christa just stared, not even flinching when Ymir let her fingers linger on her skin a moment longer, and in a second the orbs were gone and her long lashes fluttered slightly. The girl had simply gone back to sleep.

Odd occurrences like that seemed to happen often. Slowly, Ymir came to know Christa more and more. She picked up on the things she liked, the things that moved her, and every so often she would find her staring off into space, biting her lip worriedly as if she were fearful or dreadful about something. Ymir would point this out. Christa would only smile and assure, '_I'm fine, really, I am!'_

Then, there were the days when Christa would sit and talk for _hours_. About a book she read, a show she saw on TV, a new discovery and infatuation that had her utterly baffled. Ymir tried not to laugh, but the girl was honestly from another planet. Ordinary things like cars and trains and planes astounded her. Things like a mother laughing with her child or a girl playing in the rain brought her tears of joy, and Ymir couldn't quite understand how a person could be so sensitive to the world around them.

Everywhere she looked, Christa found the light, the beauty, the marvel of ordinary things that nobody would notice and yet she cherished all the same. The girl slowly changed the world around her, radiating an invisible light that stopped people right on their tracks to turn, look, gawk at her stunning presence. She was like a beacon, and she didn't even know it. Soon, Ymir had become so entranced, so obliviously fascinated that she felt like the girl's existence filled her very lungs with air.

With life.

How could that be? _How could a person even do that?_

It was moments like that when Ymir had to stop, take a deep breath and remind herself:

**Soon, this girl is going to be gone**. _What will you do when she leaves you? What will you do when she goes? People leave, Ymir. People _always_ leave._

But still, time passed and rain fell and the heavens opened up and there was the sun again. Eventually, the apartment looked more like a home for two than just Ymir's. Christa's belongings dotted about the place. A book she had just read, a tiny bottle of perfume, a new toothbrush in the bathroom, another pair of shoes sitting by the door. These little traces and slivers of herself gave Ymir such incoherent satisfaction, she found herself looking forward to the nature of her presence more than to the arrival of the rain.

Which, by the way, had suddenly died down on those few, blissful days when Ymir found herself staring at the girl, her mind wandering slightly as she imagined what her story was, what resided within that heart, that soul.

That damned princess suitcase.

Eventually, Ymir had stopped smoking. She'd stopped fighting, she'd even stopped getting drunk. Well, not entirely, but at least not as much as before. Hangovers barely ever happened, and Ymir hadn't bothered to return any of the calls from the people that sought after her, asking _heeeey, where have you been!?_

Lost, she decided. She was lost. Except now, she guessed, perhaps even in a good way.

Soon the bruises on Christa's body were beginning to fade. The girl's smiles grew bigger and wider and although Ymir had so much she still couldn't understand, she accepted it. She simply accepted it.

For the first time in her life, Ymir allowed herself to just _be_, without a single thought to dwell upon the consequences of such a bold and self-destructive action.

* * *

"Try this on."

Ymir stood right before her, her arms stretched out and offering a large, white paper bag with a dress folded neatly inside.

Christa's eyes grew wide with surprise. Confused, she set the book she was reading aside. "What's that?"

"It's a dress," Ymir said, placing the bag on Christa's lap. "I bought it for you."

"What?" Christa peeked into the bag, lifted the dark, navy dress with her fingers and brought it to view. It was beautiful. She examined it with her eyes before raising a brow at her friend. "Why?"

"Because I wanted to. Now go try it on."

For a moment, Christa didn't move. She wore an unreadable expression as she eyed Ymir down, trying to understand what the girl was up to. Finally though, she gave a capitulated sighed, rising to her feet and carrying the dress into the bathroom.

"You didn't have to do that, you know," Christa called out from inside.

"Actually," Ymir stuffed her hands inside her pockets, "I did."

"How so?"

"Well,"—a pause. Ymir walked aimlessly with her eyes glued to the floor—"I didn't mention this earlier, but I've got a place I want to take you."

"Oh?"

"Yeah."

"Ymir," Christa peeked her head out the door. "Is this you trying to take me out on a date?"

Ymir guffawed loudly. "You wish."

"Well then," the girl made her way back into the bathroom, working herself out of her clothes. "What is it?"

"It's a party," Ymir said, staring blankly at the door Christa left slightly open behind her.

"_Ooh_, a party?"

"Yes. Reiner and Bertholdt invited us. They want to meet you."

"You told them about me?"

"I didn't have to. Bertholdt already met you once, remember?"

Christa was silent for a moment, slowly recalling the man she thought she would never have the privilege of ever seeing again. Her voice was muffled as she worked herself out of her shirt. "And he spoke to Reiner about me?"

"I guess so," Ymir muttered. She picked up Christa's book from the sofa, her fingers flipping through the pages aimlessly, eyes catching a few flickers of random words. "I don't know, Christa. I just thought it would be nice to get you out of this place. It's not healthy to be home all the time just reading books, you know."

Both girls became silent, the word_ home_ dwelling heavily in the air along with the sound of Christa ruffling through her clothing. Suddenly, Ymir's eyes caught a glimpse of a naked expanse of white skin.

Christa's back.

She stared, stunned, as if she'd never seen a person's bare backside before. She noticed the sharp bones that peeked out from under her skin, her shoulder blades, the gentle line of her spine and the way it led down into a soft slope, ending with pair of hollow dimples on the small of her back. Quickly, Ymir turned to look away, smiling stupidly at herself when she realized how out of character she was being.

"So," Christa was the one to break the silence. "Where is it that we're going?"

"To some fancy venue. It's about thirty minutes away from here."

After a few moments, Christa finally made her way out of the bathroom. She turned gradually, giving Ymir a full view of the dress she wore so. Damn. _Perfectly._

"So what do you think?"

**Fuck.**

Ymir's breath clogged within her throat. It was as if she'd suddenly forgotten how to breathe.

"Fine," she choked. "You look fine."

"Fine?" Christa looked disappointed.

"Great."—_Fucking shit, Ymir_—"You look great."

"Well, thank you." Christa smoothed her hands over the skirt of the dress and asked, "So when is this party?"

"Um..." Ymir looked away, severing the spell Christa's gaze always cast her under. "In like two hours. We'll take my car."

Christa's eyes grew wide, "Your _car_?"

Hesitating, Ymir suddenly remembered the smaller girl's previous comments of '_Oh, I've never __driven a car__ before!'_

"Yes." She shot her a menacing look. "And I'm gonna be the one driving."

"Of course." Christa gave Ymir a soft smile before turning happily to see herself in the mirror.

Silence.

It suddenly dawned upon the room as the girl stared at her own reflection, an ambiguous expression growing on her face. Ymir stood behind her, understanding her reaction as they both stared at the same, undeniable thing:

The bruises.

"I can wear a cardigan," Christa eventually muttered under her breath, her voice so faint and small it was nearly shot down by the sound of cars honking their horns outside. "But," she looked back at Ymir, "I don't have one."

The taller girl shrugged mildly and set the book down on the couch before running a hand through her hair and sighing, trying not to feel pleased over the fact she'd guessed Christa's dress size, picked the perfect color for her skin tone, had another favor to grant her even though she never liked to do that sort of thing.

Ymir never liked to share, but she smiled at the girl she'd willingly shared two weeks of her life with and said, "Then I guess I'll just have to give you one of mine."

* * *

The rain fell gently from the sky, drizzling; a faint feather's kiss when it landed atop the skin of Christa's cheek. She made her way out of the car, patiently waiting for Ymir before they both made their way into the building, up the elevator, and towards the place where the party was being held.

Christa felt nervous. She couldn't quite understand why, but she did. She was afraid Ymir's friends wouldn't like her, would think her incompetent and naïve; unable to hold a steady conversation. It was ridiculous and petty, but she felt the fear all the same.

Gently, she brought her arms around her frame and hugged herself, catching the faint smell of Ymir that lingered on the cardigan and seeped into her own clothes.

"You'll be fine," the taller girl said. Christa's eyes flashed up to look at her. The brunette gave her a reassuring nod. "Thanks," she smiled, smoothing a lock of blonde hair behind her ear, feeling a little (but only a little) bit better.

Once inside, Christa was awed by the colossal display of food and drinks, of people talking and mingling, and the loud music that played in the background. She looked out the tall windows that covered an entire wall and was struck by the view of the city, of the life that went on outside in the night.

Her eyes grew wide, her mouth fell open, and Ymir chuckled to herself when she caught the girl's expression, never failing to feel amused at how everything easily amazed her.

"Hi!" A tall man made his way towards them. When he stood, towering over Christa like a building once again, the girl looked up and smiled, feeling thankful for the presence of the man whose face she'd tried to memorize once before.

Bertholdt gave the girls a grin. "I'm so glad you two could make it!"

For a moment, Christa relished on the sound of his voice, and it was all she could do not to close her eyes and sway her head slightly at the music it created. The low timbre of his tone, the calm, smooth way the words flowed out of his mouth and threaded together. Different people had different ways of talking, she thought, when she suddenly heard Ymir's blunt, icy tone contrasting his.

"Where's your boyfriend?" Ymir asked, and Bertholdt looked shocked, hesitating for a moment before pointing his thumb over his shoulder.

"He's out back," he said. "Not sure exactly what he's doing, but I know he said he wanted to talk to you."

"Alright," Ymir looked to the ground, stuffing her hands inside her pockets and deciding Reiner could wait. She wasn't about to leave Christa alone. Not in this place.

"So, Christa," Bertholdt turned to the smaller girl, and her eyes flashed wide with surprise. That was the first time she had ever heard anyone say her name besides Ymir.

"How are you? You look great tonight!"

"Oh," Christa suddenly felt speechless, realizing she would have a harder time talking to strangers than she thought. "I— I'm great! And thank you. Um, Ymir's the one that picked out my dress."

"Really?" Bertholdt gave the brunette a playful nudge. "I didn't know you had such good taste in clothes, Ymir."

"Oh, shut up," Ymir spat, rolling her eyes. She heard Christa laugh at that.

"Do you guys throw these parties often?" the small girl asked him, already feeling a bit more comfortable in his presence.

"Well," Bertholdt shook his head slowly, "Not often, but we do try our best. Reiner's always so busy. This is really the best way to get everyone together, you know?"

"Well, I think that's great!" Christa mused. "I would throw parties every single weekend if it were up to me."

Suddenly, Bertholdt found himself smiling at her. He stared at her, and then at the tall girl beside her that stared out into space, and wondered how the pair could even come to be. How a warm, friendly girl like Christa could form such a strong camaraderie with a person like Ymir.

"So," he suddenly grabbed Christa's hand, and Ymir's body stiffened visibly from his action. Christa didn't seem to mind though, she smiled widely when he said, "Would you like for me to show you around? Introduce you to some people?"

The girl hadn't felt this excited in her entire life.

Ymir hadn't felt more annoyed.

"Yes," Christa beamed. "Yes, I would love that very much!"

* * *

Eventually, the drizzling rain outside ceased altogether, and Ymir slowly found herself beginning to feel more and more at ease.

Time went by like a sprinting sparrow, quick, fleeting. Before she knew it, it was ten, then eleven, then suddenly it was already midnight.

Christa's enthusiasm didn't seem to wane, though, and the girl beamed and smiled, conversing easily with everyone around her, every set of eyes falling on to her as she spoke, direly oblivious to the spell that she cast on all those that surrounded her.

After a while, Ymir pulled her aside. Partly because she missed her, but mostly because she just wanted to be selfish and have her all to herself again.

She asked her if she was having fun.

"Yeah!" Christa nearly bounced on her feet, "I haven't had this much fun since..."—her eyes trailed off, she searched for the word—"_Ever!_"

Ymir snorted, "Alright, kiddo. Calm down."

"I'm sorry, I just get _really _excited sometimes."

"Oh, trust me," Ymir scoffed gently, "I know."

Something fluttered lively within her chest when she heard Christa's laugh. So innocently, so genuinely, the girl broke out in laughter, a goofy grin lingering in her lips when she looked at Ymir and shrugged as if to say, '_I can't help it'._

The booming music had died down. Now, a string quartet played a happy, sappy tune that had the crowd's loud conversations turning into soft, appreciative whispers.

Despite Ymir's own personal distaste for the music, Christa seemed to be enjoying it. Her heart picked up on every sound and wave, the way the bows glided gently over the strings, the music they emitted, sending it out in invisible wisps of melody that floated and danced about the room, filling her very soul with glee.

Christa loved music. She felt she could_ soar_ just by listening to it, and she took mental note of that fact. Of the new trait about herself she had just discovered.

"Do you want a drink?" Ymir suddenly asked her, and the girl was broken from her trance.

"Oh," she nodded at her friend. "Sure, that would be nice."

"Alcoholic though."

"Excuse me?" Christa's face went pale.

"What?" Ymir smirked slyly. "Don't tell me you've never had alcohol before."

Christa's eyes were expressionless, and the girl stood silently for a moment before balling her hands into tight fists and saying, "You know what? Fine. Give me the strongest shit you can find."

"Whoa-hoa!" Ymir 's eyes went wide, amusement dancing in the corner of her lips. She'd never heard Christa curse before. "Are you sure about that?"

"I am. Don't underestimate me, woman." Christa brushed her hair away from her face with her hands, her cheeks tinged with a faint, pink paint. She was blushing.

"I won't," Ymir beamed, already excited by the thought of Christa getting drunk for the first time. "I'll be right back."

In a second, Ymir was gone. Silently, Christa stood by herself, a small flame of excitement igniting inside of her as she held on to the fabric of the cardigan, her skin feeling hot and enveloped as if she were engulfed by flames.

She was ready. Christa wasn't shy and modest. She was **bold**. Bold people drink, right? Bold people do whatever they want, wherever they want, without a single thought for others!

Like Ymir.

Christa wanted to be just like Ymir.

* * *

After grabbing a beer bottle for herself, and pouring some kind of mixed drink into a red plastic cup for Christa, Ymir swiftly turned around. Despite the small girl's remark of _give me the strongest shit you can find_, she decided it would be best to start her off with something milder. It's not like she wanted her puking on her first time, anyway. Where was the fun in that?

Carefully, Ymir walked, her mind teeming with anticipation as she made her way through the crowd and towards Christa. She kept her eyes glued on the drinks, making sure the blue liquid that filled the plastic cup to the brim didn't spill over.

But then, Ymir looked up.

Her entirely body froze stiff when she saw it.

**Christa.**

Panic immediately jolted up her spine, and before she could even process a single thought, Ymir was running, pushing her way violently through the crowd.

The glass of the beer bottle exploded into tiny shards when it fell onto ground helplessly.

* * *

_"Get away from her!"_

Ymir's voice was a frantic shout, and as she kept running, she felt the distance between them couldn't have been longer.

A dark-haired man stood before Christa, groping her shoulders and mouthing something Ymir couldn't catch. The small girl stared up at him, stunned, afraid, horrified. Her eyes looked into his, tears welling up visibly in them as her jaw hung slack in surprise.

Christa hadn't cried. For an entire week, she hadn't cried. Yet there she was, inches away from breaking entirely until suddenly—

A pair of callused hands grab onto the man, and Ymir is throwing him against the nearest wall, pinning him up into the cold cement as her deadly fists clutch his collar.

The man gasped and stuttered. She was choking him, and for a split second, she didn't even care.

She could kill him. The fucking bastard—she could've killed him right then and there. But then suddenly her eyes caught something she'd seen too many times before.

That crystalline shade of blue.

That same, sapphire gleam in his irises.

"Wait, Ymir stop!" Christa shouted from behind her, tugging at her jacket to get her to pull away. "Please," she begged. "Please don't hurt him!"

"What?" Ymir looked back at her over her shoulder, shocked. The entire room had gone silent. Even the string quartet had stropped playing. Bertholdt and Reiner quickly appeared at the scene with alarm in their eyes.

"Please, Ymir," Christa cried now. "Just let him go!"

"But—"

"Ymir. _**Please**_." Christa's voice was brittle, her lower lip quivering in that same, torturous way that indicated she was breaking, that she was losing it.

Slowly, Ymir turned her gaze back onto the man. He looked dumbstruck, terrified, and she finally willed herself to release him, her feet moving back by themselves as she retreated, despite her own desires.

She wanted to run, to break every fucking face that stared stupidly at them. But then Bertholdt broke the party, quickly telling everyone around them to _get out, __everyone. Time to go home__!_

Ymir looked at the man, looked at Christa, looked at the people that were leaving through the door and simply couldn't understand.

The man gasped, his eyes welling up with tears as he made his way towards Christa.

"Don't you dare take another fucking step!" Ymir fronted, and he stopped right on his tracks. His eyes searched the small girl that stood beside her, and Christa reflexively held on to Ymir's hand, her crying only getting worse and worse as she squeezed her hand tighter and tighter.

"It can't be," she sobbed. "It just can't be."

_Christa, what __the fuck is__ going on?_ she wanted to say, to voice her question, but Ymir was speechless, lost, her thoughts jumbling haplessly together and all she could see was the man, the girl, the hand that held on desperately to hers.

"Historia," the man said.

Ymir's eyes went wide.

_What did he call her?_

"Historia," he repeated, his voice quaking and cracking as tears streamed down his face. "It's you. I can't believe it. It's really you!"

"What are you talking about?" Ymir was the one to answer. "You've got the wrong girl, old man."

"What?" the man's blue eyes squinted with confusion, with disbelief. "But that can't be! I know who she is. This is my daughter. _That girl is my daughter!_"

The air around them stood still. The only noises in the room were Bertholdt's steps as he walked closer, and Christa's ragged breathing as she still wept.

The word was left to hang heavily between them.

**Daughter.**

Ymir willed herself to look at Christa, who was still holding on to her hand. The girl looked down shamefully, biting on her lip in that same way Ymir had seen her do so many times before when she worried, when she didn't know what to say.

"Christa, is it true?" Ymir's words felt stupid when they escaped her mouth, but she didn't know how else to word it.

Finally, the girl's facade broke down entirely. Like glass, all traces of Christa shattered, falling and scattering tragically across the floor. Every sob and snivel that once shook the silence ceased altogether, disappeared, and the girl cried no more.

Ymir couldn't even explain it. Her eyes had suddenly grown frigid, distant, and in the place where Christa Lenz should've been standing, a very unfeeling, detached girl stood in her place.

"It..." Christa's voice was flat, emotionless. "It doesn't matter."

"Yes," the man cried. "Yes, it does! I've been looking everywhere for you, Historia. Your mother— Your mother, she wouldn't let me see you! But you're here now. I've dreamt of this moment so many times before and now you're here. You're _here_. How wonderful is that?"

"Wonderful?" Christa let go of Ymir's hand. She took off the cardigan, revealing the bruises on her arms to the man as she extended them out to him.

"Look at me!" she shouted. "Look at what you've done! You left me. You just left. Do you know what she did after that? Do you know what she made me do?"

Christa was crying again, but this time the tears simply fell from her eyes. There was no emotion, no sign of loss in the features of her face.

"She was a monster, and you weren't there to protect me!" she nearly hollered. "You weren't there, Dad. You weren't there."

Immediately, Ymir understood.

The entire world suddenly just **stopped**. She couldn't hear Bertholdt's words when he placed a hand over her shoulder and asked her to give them space. She couldn't see Reiner motioning for her to go with him, to leave the scene behind.

All she saw, all she heard, all she _felt_ was the way Christa's father slowly walked towards her, and with very gentle, light fingers held on to his daughter's arms, tracing the bruises that were caused by his failure to protect her.

Ymir heard him say her name, her _real_ name, and she would've been furious if it wasn't for the fact she was just too damn _hurt_.

Christa lied.

It was clear and simple. _Christa was a fucking liar_. How could she have truly believed that this girl was any better than the rest? How could Ymir have convinced herself that Christa wouldn't be just another dirty, fucking liar?

She wanted to grab her, to lift her up by that fucking dress and haul her across the room. But then the girl's eyes were on hers, and they offered no sign of pity.

"No," Christa said. "She doesn't have to go anywhere. I think we're done here."

"Historia," the man called after her, but the girl simply turned away. She made her way towards Ymir and stood disgracefully before her, her mouth opening to speak, to utter words Ymir knew she didn't want to hear.

Her mind picked up on the traces of her words as they echoed through into her brain.

"Ymir," the girl said, "I don't expect you to forgive me. I understand if you never want to see me again, but if you would give me the chance, I would like to explain myself. I can leave after that. You don't have to help me anymore. Just please, all I ask is that you hear me out."

Ymir couldn't conjure up any words. She clenched her jaw tightly, scowling down at the girl that stood patiently before her, and feeling any small sliver of what was left of her pride be chipped away pathetically by the girl's pleading gaze.

"That's it, Ymir," Christa uttered, her voice a mere hair above a whisper. "That's all I ask."

Ymir couldn't breathe.

_Don't you think you've done enough? Don't you think you've taken enough from me?_

_No. Fuck you. I don't ever want to see your fucking face again._

Those were the things she should've told her. Those were the things Ymir would've said, but Ymir wasn't there anymore. Ymir wasn't herself. She was different, marred, baffled as icy blue eyes stared into hers and whether they belonged to Christa or to Historia, it didn't make the slightest difference. Either way, Ymir was hers. Ymir was hers entirely.

It was sad. It was petty; but Ymir thought of the way she'd confessed her life to this girl, how Christa had stayed and agreed to live with her even though she knew Ymir wasn't necessarily a good person. She never shared her own life, but Christa had always accepted hers.

Wasn't that worth something? She had accepted her for who she was, flaws and all, and Ymir knew she couldn't do it. She couldn't will herself to walk away from her. Not from the only person who understood her.

Instead, she grabbed on to Christa's hand, picked up the cardigan from the floor and didn't even bother giving the man another glance before turning to walk out the door.

For the umpteenth time, Ymir said the complete opposite of what she knew she should have:

"Alright. We're going home."

* * *

The suitcase laid open on the ground before them. Christa knelt, removing every article of clothing from within her suitcase until its true contents were revealed. The true essence of what Christa had been hiding all along.

Ymir stared. She couldn't understand what her eyes were seeing.

"This is it," Christa whispered. "This is what I've been meaning to show you."

For the life of her, Ymir couldn't find her own voice.

She hadn't spoken since they'd gotten into the car, driven thirty minutes and then gotten back into the apartment. Christa had only cried. She'd only wept silently to herself like a child in mourning, all traces of the happy, gleaming girl within the party utterly eradicated. The girl who listened to music, who spoke to new people, who willed herself to try new things... She was gone now. She was gone.

"M-my real name," Christa choked, her voice catching as tears threatened to seize her once again.

Slowly, she managed to take a deep breath, and as if her own life depended on it, she summoned all the strength within her and wove it through her words, voicing the very truth of her existence in her unequivocal sentence.

"**My real name ****i****s Historia Reiss.**"

* * *

**A/N:** Remember when I once said this would be a two-shot? Ha. Yeah. Also, for those of you who wanted this to be longer than a three-shot, thank you. I never expected many people to like this, so your comments bring me tremendous joy. Because of you, I decided to fully exploit the story, although I don't believe there's _too_ much left to tell after this. Now, it's tying up loose ends, figuring out the girls' fates and bringing everything to a close. Thank you so much for reading and reviewing!


	4. Part IV

_"Do you understand me? You can't surrender to this world—not ever. It's cruel, it really is. And if you let it, it will swallow you whole."_

* * *

**.: Rain :.**

.: Part IV :.

* * *

Notebooks.

Within the constricted walls of the princess-themed suitcase, under a thin layer of clothes, Christa had stacked_—_not money, not stolen goods_—_but a plethora of _notebooks_. Of all colors and sizes, the books were placed neatly inside the suitcase, one next to the other, building up into a thick bed that had Ymir's eyes straining with confusion.

She just couldn't understand.

Christa had confessed her real name. '_Historia Reiss__'_ dwelling heavily upon the air, gradually stabbing into Ymir's chest. She felt her pulse drumming inside her ears, her heart hammering with adrenaline inside her chest.

Slowly, the blonde girl closed her eyes, her mind clouding with worry. She knew that Ymir was upset. She'd been flummoxed_—_furious, even; a scorching fire swirling in her irises that had squashed all of Christa's courage. She didn't dare to meet her blazing gaze for fear she might be set aflame. Her blue eyes cowered away behind the safety of her closed lids as she clenched her fists tightly, tried to suppress the tremor that shook within them despite her best intentions.

"I never thought I would be saying that name again," she uttered, her voice tempered and controlled despite the torrent of emotions that stormed inside of her.

Gently, the girl drew in a deep breath, at once ready to commence her explanation.

"When I first arrived here I had a sole purpose. I had a clear intention," she began. She willed herself to open her eyes and, to her relief, found that Ymir's face looked surprisingly calm. The brunette sat down patiently before her, in her eyes a benevolence Christa had scarcely witnessed from her before.

This gave her some courage. She continued to speak, carefully reaching into her suitcase and picking out a notebook before placing it upon her own lap.

"I've been hoarding these since I was very young," she said, running a finger over the worn cover of the notebook. "After my father left when I was five, my mom decided it would be best if she kept me isolated. This meant she would be the one in charge of everything, you see. Homeschooling. Feeding me. Making sure I never left the house."

Ymir eyed the girl in silence, waiting patiently as she took a moment to composite her words.

Christa took another deep breath.

"When I was eight years old, my mom started getting large sums of money. I'm still not sure from where, but she always told me they weren't from my father. When we were able to afford a maid, she hired a woman named Frieda. I can hardly recall her face, but she's the only person I remember who'd ever shown me kindness. You see," Christa sighed, "we lived in a very isolated area. Our house stood alone atop a hill, and although the view of the mountains is something I always remembered loving, I don't think I can begin to explain how lonely it gets. It was just the two of us until Frieda came.

"Frieda always did her housework alone, never sparing me a glance as long as Mom was home. There were nights, however, when Mom would disappear. I still don't know where she would go off to, but she would be gone for days. It mostly happened right after_—_" Christa's voice caught suddenly. She screwed her eyes shut and swallowed, her fingers clutching the ends of the notebook so tightly they practically dented into the worn-out leather.

"After she would beat me," she finally voiced, her tone harsh and bitter as she pushed out the words, opening her eyes. "She wouldn't do it often at first, but soon her outbursts just grew worse and worse. Frieda managed to catch on to what was happening to me. She was young, very young, probably no older than eight-teen, so there wasn't really much she could teach me. She couldn't teach me how to fight or how to defend myself."

The girl glanced down at the notebook in her hands and said, "But there was _one thing _she could do."

"She taught you how to read," Ymir spoke, catching on, and Christa jumped at the sound of her voice.

"Yes," she said, clearing her throat. "Yes, she did." She extended her arm, offering Ymir the notebook, which she took without question, slowly opening the first few pages and running her gaze through the jumbled words as Christa spoke.

"She also taught me how to write. That was my first notebook. The words don't make much sense, but I think I caught on quickly."

Silently, Ymir viewed the faded words scribbled down in pencil. A mere child's handwriting. Her brain tried to decipher the blurred scrawls, taking a moment as she tried to understand past the grammatical errors:

_'Doubt thou the stars are fire_

_Doubt the Sun doth move_

_Doubt truth to be a liar_'

"Frieda used to read me all sorts of things," the girl said abruptly, catching Ymir's attention. "Shakespeare, Tolstoy, Oscar Wilde. A lot of times, I didn't even understand the words she read, but I loved them all the same. Her voice was always so... s_oothing_. She knew my mom was strict, so she would only read to me when she wasn't home. Sometimes, if the weather was nice, I would be extra helpful with housework so that she could finish early enough for us to go outside. At times, we would play games. Mostly, though, she would just read to me and try to teach me by herself."

Ymir looked back down at the notebook, taking a moment before she finally understood the final sentence:

_'But never doubt, I love'_

"I still remember," Christa muttered faintly, her gaze cast in some far off place as her eyes began to accumulate tears. "I remember how she would sit me on her lap, my little hands grasping the pages as she read to me. It was my job to turn them, her job was to read the words aloud. I never got..." she stopped, a compressing pain in her chest clearly overwhelming her while she blinked her eyes and allowed the tears to fall.

Ymir frowned. She noticed that even as she cried, the girl was different. Something was amiss. There was little emotion behind the tears despite the weight of her words.

"I never got to tell her," the girl lamented, her chest heaving heavily despite her cool exposure. "I never got to tell her how much joy she'd brought to me."

A brief moment of silence followed as she allowed Ymir to run her eyes over a few more words, turning the pages and seeing how, little by little, a child who once took up the skill of writing did indeed improve.

"One day," Christa continued, "Mom got home earlier than we expected. Frieda had stayed over, unbeknownst to her, just to take care of me. We read Shakespeare that night and she'd snuck the book under my pillow as I'd gone to sleep."

She rummaged through her suitcase for a moment, promptly fishing out a thick, heavy book. She passed it on to Ymir, who took it without question.

"That was it," she nodded. "That was the book she sneaked under my pillow. That night, Mom found her in the kitchen. I don't remember what happened, but when I woke up, there was a loud bang from downstairs. The whole time, I just cowered inside my room, tried hard to pick up on bits and pieces of their conversation."

"What happened?" Ymir asked, placing the heavy book over her lap.

"She found them," Christa sighed. "She found the books. She'd thrown them all over the place, and I'm pretty sure that she was drunk. I don't think she laid a hand on Frieda though, because her voice always stayed quiet. When I heard the front door close, I knew Mom had fired her. I never got to see Frieda again. This all happened when I was twelve."

"So Frieda was with you for four years?" asked Ymir, her fingers running absently over the thick cover of the book. She wondered briefly how such a heavy book must've felt, being carried by a blooming Christa once, merely twelve years old. The cover had scratches and bends at the edges, proof of many years of adherent use.

"That's right," the girl nodded, wiping away a stray tear with the back of her hand. "When Mom went up the stairs that night, I hid the book where I knew she wouldn't find it. She found _me_ though. Gave me the one of the worst beatings I remember ever getting. I couldn't even move. I thought she was going to kill me."

"_Christ_," Ymir cursed under her breath. "And all because she'd found the books?"

"Yes. She didn't want me reading."

"But why?"

Finally, Christa met Ymir's gaze and in her eyes resided something so dreadful, so broken, that it took Ymir a second to realize she'd asked a question the girl couldn't necessarily answer herself.

"I don't know," Christa uttered helplessly, her voice suddenly tight with desperation. "_I don't know!_ I don't know why she hated me so much. She just did. She nearly killed me that night. I could tell by her breath that she was intoxicated. When I woke up hours later, I was lying on the floor and there was blood dried up under my nose. The first thing I did was look for that book, and I don't think I'd ever known such happiness when I finally found it."

Ymir pursed her lips tightly, her eyes landing on the notebook she had set aside on the ground beside her. "So where did you get all the notebooks then?"

"I would steal them," Christa admitted, not a sliver of remorse threaded through her words. "You see, that's why I think I understood you when you first told me about your life. I know what it's like to take in place of need. I _had_ to keep reading and writing. I **had** to. I knew that was the only way I would somehow find a way out of that hell."

Christa cleared her throat, gradually recomposing herself and summoning a frigid composure back into her voice. The same Christa that had spoken blandly to her own father, the one that stood emotionless and cold at the party a few moments ago, she was before Ymir once again.

"I stole them from our neighbor," she recalled, her voice toneless. "He was an old man, not one for talking much, but his daughter was lucky enough to be able to go to school. I managed to steal some notebooks from her. His house was nearly a mile away, though, and I would catch colds from walking unprotected in the winter."

"So you just wrote?" Ymir asked, slightly taken aback by Christa's lack of emotion.

"Yes."

"About what?"

"Anything." Christa searched inside the suitcase for another notebook. "I would write about my day, a new discovery I'd made, a person I'd seen walking down our street or what my mother cooked that night for dinner. I just wrote all of it. I set every sliver of myself down on paper hoping that one day it would amount to something."

"So then," Ymir took the notebook that was being offered to her, "Why do you still have them? Why carry them all the way here?"

Suddenly, the smaller girl went silent, her eyes distant and occult. A long moment passed before she spoke again.

"Well then," Christa glanced down at her hands, her voice soft but not mild enough to be a whisper. "I guess that's the part you've been wanting to know all along now, isn't it?"

"Hold on," Ymir stopped her, holding up her hand. "Before you continue, I have questions."

Christa's eyes went wide, despite herself. "U-um," she stuttered, and something about the way she struggled with herself reminded Ymir of the Christa she knew, the one that had lived with her for two weeks already.

"Alright," the girl finally nodded. "Go ahead."

"First," Ymir her up her index finger, "I want to know why you lied to me about your name."

Christa's face was expressionless, her eyes never once breaking from Ymir's as she said, "It wasn't meant to be a lie, Ymir. I just didn't want to be Historia anymore. The name carries too much with it."

"So you just picked the name 'Christa' out on a whim?"

"I did."

"Why?"

"For the same reason you asked me to stay with you, Ymir. Just because."

Her response had startled her, and it took Ymir a second to clear her throat and recover, holding out her second finger and locking eyes sternly with the girl. "Fine. Second, the man at the party tonight. Is he really your father?"

"Yes," Christa answered dryly. "He is."

"And he left you when you were little?"

"That's right."

"And he just randomly ran into you tonight. You weren't intending on meeting him or anything?"

"No," Christa shook her head. "No, I swear, Ymir. I have no idea how he found me."

"Alright," Ymir took a deep breath, holding out a third finger. "Third question. How was he with you?"

"What do you mean?"

"When he lived with you. Do you remember him being kind? Mean? Selfish? How was he?"

"I..." Christa's eyes trailed off and stared out sullenly into space. Gradually, emotion was returning to her eyes, weighing them down, that same heavy veil that shadowed her gaze once before seemingly draped over her once again.

When Christa looked up to stare at Ymir, she felt her breath catch within her throat at the revival of those shimmering blue eyes. So clear, so innocent. Even now, as they delved deep into the images in her memories, the cause of their own misery.

"I remember," Christa said, her voice faint. "He was always so kind to me. So gentle. If anything, he was truly a loving parent. He was patient and understanding. He never shouted at me or treated me unkindly, at least not that I remember."

The girl smiled suddenly, remembering her father. "I can't recall too much, but I know he was the one who always bought me clothes, who took me to the park and talked to me. He used to perch me up on his shoulders and I remember how, suddenly, he was the tallest man in the entire world. I could see the whole world as far as I was concerned when I was up there. Mom was always fighting with him, though. Now, I can almost understand why he left her. I think, in part, he _had_ to. He _had_ to get away from Mom, just as I did too."

"Yeah, but"_—_Ymir shook her head bemusedly_—_"he's your dad isn't he? Why didn't he take you with him? Why didn't he keep you from her when he knew the way she was?"

"No," Christa answered solemnly. "I don't think he knew, Ymir. Mom wasn't abusive until some time after he left. She would never hit me before then. It all came after."

Ymir gaped at her, her mind slowly piecing the words together. She clenched her jaw while, slowly, feeling the vestiges of all her previous anger die out, one smoldering coal at a time. She realized she wasn't angry at Christa. Because... How could she be? She came to understanding, to accepting. She tried to go over what she felt she'd already learned from the girl that sat before her.

"So your father left when you were little," Ymir recited, clearing her throat. "Your mom then turned abusive after that and never bothered to take you to school. She started to get mysterious amounts of money which later led to the hiring of a maid who, out of kindness, taught you how to read and write. Then she was fired, and you were left to be alone with your mother until you suddenly decided to run away? Making up a name and scrapping your old life as a response?"

"Ymir," the girl sighed. "It's all very complicated. I'm telling you what I can and I'm trying my best to make sense_—_but this is _my life_ we're talking about. I can hardly fathom it as it is."

Ymir averted her eyes from Christa's quickly. _You're telling me_, she thought. Everything hardly ever made any goddamn sense these days.

Carefully, Ymir opened the notebook in her hands to the first page. She noticed that the lettering seemed clearer and more eloquent, clearly written by an older, more adept Christa probably already in her teens.

"Alright," Ymir nodded at the girl. "Go on then."

"A little over two weeks ago," the girl said, "my mom found the notebooks, particularly the one you're holding in your hand. I'd been hiding them for a few years and I have no idea how she found them. She read something in one of them that pissed her off, and she caught me that day while I was leaving the shower. She was screaming at me. Calling me a dirty slut."

Ymir's breath hitched within her throat. A _slut_?

"Why?" she asked her, and Christa stared quietly at the floor.

"I'd written down an event once," she said, her thumb absently drawing circles on the skin of her knee as if she were consoling herself, "when I was fifteen. Mom sometimes would bring random men over, the promise of a new daddy constantly in the air as mine remained missing. One of them, however, seemed a little more interested in me than in her."

Ymir's stomach turned. She felt like she was going to be sick.

"Did he do anything to you?" she asked tentatively, sincerely dreading the response.

Christa didn't answer, her eyes staring out at nothing. Her expression was daunting. Blank.

"No," she whispered finally. "No, he did not."

Despite herself, Ymir's chest un-tightened with a huge wave of relief. _Thank you, God_.

"But he was close," Christa added, voice dry, her sapphire gaze turned to ice. "_T__oo _close. I don't know exactly how he did it, but I remember feeling that it was wrong. I was scared. I was confused as to why my mother would allow such a thing to happen to me in the first place. Weren't mothers supposed to protect their own children? That night, he did nothing brutal to me. He just kissed me. I was so disgusted though, that I hit him. The man was furious. I still consider it a miracle to this day, but he didn't act any further upon his anger. He merely grabbed his coat and left. Mom... I still don't know where she was when all this happened.

"It doesn't matter though," Christa shook her head, "because she found that notebook and read what I had written inside. She beat me mercilessly, like if it was all my own damn fault. I only had a towel on. There was nothing to protect me that day."

Ymir saw the way Christa's hand reached to touch one of her own bruises absentmindedly.

"And that's why you have those bruises," Ymir noted.

"Yes, it is," Christa affirmed with a nod. "She went to sleep shortly after that, and I stole her most expensive clothing and wore it. I put on her makeup and stole her most expensive shoes. After stuffing my notebooks and a scarce amount of clothes into my only suitcase my father had bought me when I was little, I stole her black pearl necklace and left. I don't know how long I walked, but I found the nearest pawn shop and sold the thing, made my way to the train station and found my way here."

At that, Ymir recalled the day she'd met her. The girl that suddenly appeared standing next to her, how her voice had been so faint she thought it was just her imagination. How she'd suddenly smiled at her. How her clothes seemed wrinkled and worn despite their pristine appearance. How her eyes seemed distant and fragile, despite her stubborn, benevolent smile.

"And that's the day when I met you," Ymir said, boring her gaze into Christa's angelic face.

The girl blinked, nodding her head slowly. "Yes, Ymir. Yes, it is. I knew it the second I saw you. I knew something good would come out of talking to you. And you just stared at me."_—s_he laughed_—_"You just stared like some dumbfounded owl. I thought maybe you just couldn't see me, but then I was so happy when you finally spoke back. Do you remember what you said to me?"

Ymir shook her head 'no'.

" _'Some of us are already, dead, honey'_. I smiled, because I knew that it was true. That day, I had an intention, and meeting you wasn't one of them."

"Oh, trust me," Ymir scoffed, "neither was it mine."

"No, Ymir," Christa interrupted, her tone humorless. "You don't understand what I'm trying to tell you. _I had a plan._"

Ymir narrowed her eyes at her. "What plan?"

"I was ready. I was ready for it all to end, you see. That's why I packed my notebooks into this suitcase. Every piece of me is in here, from my first words on paper to my last thoughts before I ran away. I've been documenting everything in case..." Christa went silent.

Ymir shook her head. "Christa," she said, and the girl looked up at her surprisingly, reacting to the name."I don't understand."

After a beat, the small girl found her voice, and when she said the words aloud, her tone was direly serious.

"**I was ready to die, Ymir**."

"What the f_—_" Ymir sputtered. "Don't say that!"

"No, listen to me. Let me finish."

Ymir eyed the girl quietly for a moment, physically biting down on her lip to suppress all her objections. When Christa spoke again, she spoke carefully and slowly, weaving all her strength into her confession as Ymir clung on to every single word.

"My mom_—_I don't know if you understand this feeling_—_but each time she hit me was like she killed off another piece of me. Little by little, I was slowly chipped away. My courage, my self-esteem, my sense of purpose, she completely destroyed all of it.

"It's just_—_ _It's just not fair!_" Christa exclaimed suddenly, her stern facade utterly abolished as her tone became desperate and brittle once again. "I was just a little kid. What did I ever do so wrong? Why did she hate me so much? I tried to always do things right, but everything upset her. I was in a constant state of panic. A door slamming shut too loudly, a thud from something falling on the floor_—_all these things would cause me so much anxiety. I thought it was her. I thought it was her coming for me. After Frieda left, she made me clean. Every single day I had to clean that house over and over again like it was some form of punishment. And then I always had to look good for when she brought people over, no matter how little sleep or how beaten up I was. She wouldn't hit me when people were there, but God forbid I ever said anything wrong, or looked at her the wrong way or made her feel like a fool in front of her friends, she'd come back to punish me for it later.

"She broke me, Ymir," the girl keened. "She broke me. She killed off every piece of me and that's why I had to run away. I knew that if she woke up from that nap, she would just hit me again. She said she would kill me. My own mother said she would kill me!"

Ymir swallowed hard, suddenly feeling ill.

"I was done for, Ymir. When I ran away, I knew that I could never go back. I don't know what she would do to me if I ever returned, but I also had never been outside in the world before so I was frightened. The reason I packed all these notebooks in my suitcase was because..."

"Because?"

"Because I thought_—_" Christa balked, her eyes growing wide at some realization Ymir couldn't catch.

Then, finally, the girl simply broke down entirely. She hid her face behind her hands and sobbed. Sob after sob, her body shook, and Christa crumbled down into pieces. Ymir wanted to hold her, to hug her, but she fell so utterly useless all she could do was stare, wait patiently for the girl to raise her head and continue her story.

"I thought that if, somehow, I couldn't make it in the world... That if I somehow managed to die or get into an accident that perhaps someone would find my suitcase and that they would _see_. That they would see who I was."

Ymir opened her mouth to speak, but found that she couldn't. She couldn't fathom the idea of Christa not existing. She couldn't fathom the idea of Christa never being in her life.

_Please stop crying_, she wanted to say. She wanted all the pain to end. Why did it always have to be this way? Why did good people always have to suffer?

If she could, Ymir would've surrendered all her strength to Christa, given it to her so that she could push on.

But the girl found her own. She raised her head more, and although she still cried, she managed out the words, "How do you stack an entire life into a tiny suitcase? How do I tell the world who I am? I matter too, don't I? Just because I had to live through that doesn't mean I'm any less than anyone else. Why did no one care about me? Why must I be left behind? I'm just as important, you know. I deserve to be happy too!"

Ymir choked, something foreign stinging in her eyes. She reached out her hand, placing it gently over Christa's.

The contact made the girl look up, and her eyes suddenly grew wide with astonishment. She couldn't believe what she was seeing.

Tears.

They welled up in Ymir's eyes, the apparition rendering Christa speechless and utterly appalled as the girl squeezed her hand tightly.

Ymir bit down on her lip, something blurring her vision although she could not understand what. "Christa," she finally uttered, her voice a fervent whisper. "You _are _special. You _are _important. It doesn't matter what you lived through. **You're not defined by your past**."

Christa's eyes lingered on hers, astounded. But then the girl slowly managed a smile despite the tears that marred her gentle face.

"Ymir," she whispered, "do you really believe that?"

"Yes!" Ymir nodded vigorously, and it was all she could do not to break down now, not to fall into the angel's arms as her hand squeezed back even tighter. "Yes, Christa, I mean it! Did you know that before I met you, no one had ever shown me kindness? No one, Christa. No one. But you did. I don't know why but you always did. Do you know how happy that has made me? I can't even begin to explain_—_" Ymir choked on the lump forming in her throat, but she pushed on, stubborn, "I can't even begin to explain what you've taught me. You _**are**_ special, Christa. And I don't think it matters what you've gone through, because I know it doesn't define you. Who you are today, how you _see_ yourself_—_**that's** what defines you!"

"Really?" Christa inched closer, her free hand reaching out to clasp Ymir's other firmly. "Ymir, that's what I've been trying to tell myself all this time! But how do you convince yourself of that when there are bruises on your body? How do you truly believe that when your own skin carries the evidence of your past?"

"You just do it, Christa," Ymir said. "You just push on. You _have_ to. Bruises don't define who you are. Not even your own mother does! Do you understand me? You can't surrender to this world_—_not ever. It's cruel, it really is. And if you let it, it will swallow you whole. You have to do what's best for you. You _have_ to be selfish! No one will ever try to save you. Just look at my life! Look at your own! No one has ever come to save us, right? That's why we have to push on, Christa. That's why we have to be our own saviors."

"But_—_" Christa looked down, suddenly sheepish.

Ymir's body went unexpectedly stiff. Despite the stinging in her eyes and the lump within her throat, she marveled in the way Christa's gaze suddenly met hers, caught each syllable in her words like if she was just hearing her voice for the very first time.

"But, Ymir," the angelic voice said, "you have been that for me."

At that moment, Ymir felt all air escape her.

Christa's face was pallid, warm tears trickling down her cheeks and falling off her chin like a child. A drop landed on the back of Ymir's hands as she suddenly brought them closer, nestled them gently against her own chest.

"Ymir," Christa sighed as she closed her eyes. She could feel the girl's heartbeat against the back of her fingers, the _thump_, _thump_, _thump_ of it beating with life inside her chest indicating that she was all too real. That despite her own disbelief, Ymir wasn't actually dreaming.

"You have been that to me," Christa repeated, opening her eyes to look up at her. "I owe you my life in more ways than one. You took me in when I had no place else to go. You granted me safety when I was utterly alone. I was giving up, and then suddenly, you _saved_ me."

Christa smiled, a faint whisper of a laugh escaping her lips before her face was suddenly so close to Ymir's that she could feel the girl's breath brush against her chin. She inched closer and closer until their foreheads met, then she slowly shut her eyes again.

"Thank you," she breathed, and Ymir felt something crumble inside of her. Her heart, her stomach_—_she didn't know what. All her insides suddenly felt like they were made out of mush.

She could feel Christa's breath against her own lips when the girl spoke again, her mouth just adjacent to her own.

"Thank you," the girl whispered. " Thank you, thank you, thank you."

Over and over again she thanked her, until her voice caught once again and her chants of gratitude stopped. Ymir was so close to losing it. If it wasn't for the fact she had to swallow a few times to nullify the burgeoning lump within her throat, Ymir would've spoken out as the girl began to cry again.

Gently, however, she dared herself to lift her hands from Christa's grasp. In a second, she dug her fingers into her flaxen hair with one, cupped the side of her face with the other.

When Christa pulled back to look up at her and Ymir realized she had been holding her own breath, it all suddenly hit her:

**She loved her**.

The thought flickered to life inside her head; a small flame threatening to grow into wildfire.

_Yes. _

Yes, Ymir **loved** her!

She wanted to protect her, to cherish her, to remind her of how beautiful she was, of how her eyes reflected all that was good and pure in the world despite all the bad they had to witness.

She was so close to saying it. To pronouncing the undeniable truth. The_ only_ truth:

_I love you, __Christa_.

Slowly, Ymir's lips parted. She inhaled a gasp of breath, her voice gradually sparking to life until quickly_—_

She couldn't. Ymir suddenly began to cry.

She just couldn't do it. She couldn't tell the girl at all.

She lowered her gaze forlornly as tears finally spilled from her eyes, drowning her in an overwhelming sense of loss, of helplessness. Traitorously, the tears made their way down her cheeks and burned her, _scathing_ her, marking her face with the nasty reminders of her failures as she gasped breathlessly for air.

What was happening to her? She felt like she was being suffocated. She couldn't remember when was the last time she'd cried and the feeling was so baffling and foreign that it rendered her speechless, suddenly bereft of any common knowledge of words.

Despite her own astonishment at her behavior though, Christa seemed to understand. She didn't judge her. She never did. A warm smile slowly dawned upon her lips, and Ymir still held on to her face, her fingers still woven into her hair like a child holding on to their safety blanket.

"_Shhh," _the girl hushed her, even though Ymir wasn't making a sound. "It's alright," Christa whispered as her fingertips gently grazed her cheeks.

They were cold against her skin, and Ymir flinched away from her hands reflexively. Christa didn't budge though, she still hushed her softly, drying the tears that flowed down her face with her own fingers as if her touch were enough to end the pains of the entire world.

"It's okay," she whispered again, and Ymir closed her eyes to the sound of her voice.

It was too late now. Ymir was too far gone.

Christa steadily brought her hands to hold her face tenderly, lifting it gently so that Ymir would look at her.

When Ymir's eyes fell on hers again, she found the angel staring back at her, her nose and cheeks tinged with red as she still cried. She offered that same incandescent grin that belonged not only to Christa, but to Historia as well. Despite the stream of tears that still claimed her, the girl gave Ymir a reassuring nod.

"I'm alright," she told her. "See? I'm okay now. Don't cry, Ymir. Don't cry."

"I'm sorry," Ymir croaked, surprised by the hoarse undertone in her voice. Her throat felt dry and gritty, but she pushed out the words, "I'm sorry, Christa. I don't know what the fuck's wrong with me."

And she didn't. _By God_, she couldn't seem to understand anything anymore.

"Me niether," Christa chuckled lightly, "I didn't think you were such a crybaby, Ymir. _Jeez_."

Offended, Ymir looked at her and scoffed, but the next second her arms wrapped around her tiny form and she enveloped Christa into her arms, crushing her into her self protectively.

The girl gasped, startled. She hadn't expected the sudden embrace when Ymir held her close against her chest. Still, Christa allowed her eyes fall shut and brought her arms to encircle them around Ymir's waist to hold her tightly, almost possessively, inhaling her comforting scent.

In the silence, the girls held on to each other for dear life. As if the seconds that ticked by would somehow will their bodies apart forever. As if the music of the rain outside reminded them that they were doomed to be without the other; like the sun and the moon, the earth and the sky, like fire and ice, like darkness and light_—_no matter how hard they held on, no matter how tight.

But then, Christa slowly felt Ymir's heart beating hopefully against her ear, its little song reminiscent of a fervent lullaby. Strong, quick, ferocious; it beat against the constricting walls within her chest like a lion trapped inside a cage.

"Don't ever lie to me again," were Ymir's sudden words. She whispered into Christa's hair, her hand buried safely into the back of her head. "I don't care what ever happened to you. I don't care if you're scared of ever hurting me_—_just _please, _Christa. Don't you ever lie to me again."

The girl hummed quietly against her chest, her voice a muffled declaration: "I won't."

"Good," Ymir sighed, holding her closer. "That's good then."

The girls sat silently for a while, comfortably holding one another as their bodies engulfed in each other's heat, in each other's safety.

They held each other until they each stopped crying. Until Ymir grew accustomed to the scent of Christa's hair. Until Christa memorized the rhythm of Ymir's heartbeat, and until the night sky finally cleared outside, no longer appropriated by the demanding sovereignty of rain.

When the girls reluctantly let go of one another, Christa rubbed her eyes sorely before shooting a glance over her shoulder to the suitcase that still laid opened on the floor. "Well," she shrugged, "I guess I won't be needing that anymore, right?"

Ymir was silent, her eyes feeling dry and dull as a consequence of her previous episode. "What will you do now?" she asked her.

"I don't know," Christa sighed, slowly lifting a notebook from the floor and holding it out to Ymir. "Would you care to read them with me?"

"Can I?"

"Of course," the girl beamed at her, drying her tears with the back of her hands. "It _is_ my turn to tell you about myself, after all."

Slowly, Ymir felt herself smile, remembering the conversation they first had at the restaurant the day they first met:

_"It's your turn. __Now you get to tell me about yourself."_

She carefully made her way to sit beside her, and notebook by notebook, the girls began to read.

Christa would shrug, sometimes she would laugh, other times she would stare longingly at the text on the paper. She would add comments, remarks, remember what she was wearing that day and what she did before she'd written every new entry as if she'd merely done it just the day before.

_She's so smart_, Ymir thought to herself, captivated by the girl that read calmly beside her. With every different notebook, Christa slowly gave Ymir every piece of herself, of her life, of her story, and she wished she had been there to witness all of it for herself.

Ymir wished, like she'd never wished for anything before, that she'd known Christa her entire life.

It took them hours to go through all the notebooks. The sun was already peeking out the horizon by the time Ymir glanced up from a page to find Christa laying on her side on the floor, a hand sandwhiched between her head and the ground, her flaxen hair splayed about on the floor and the navy skirt of her dress falling just above her thigh, where the large purple bruise still resided. She slept soundly, peacefully, that same way she did when Ymir had first brought her into the apartment and told her to make herself at home.

Quietly, Ymir set the notebook she'd been reading aside.

She knew now.

Ymir knew Christa entirely.

_"Why do you still call me that?" _the girl had asked a few hours before, while they flipped through the pages of one of the notebooks.

_"What, 'Christa'?"_

_"Yes. I already told you," _she'd run a finger over the scribbled words on the paper, _"my real name is Historia."_

_"Hmm, I know that."_

Ymir smiled, recalling what she'd answered her as she slowly raked her fingers through the sleeping girl's hair.

_"You were someone different when I met you, and although you are Historia and nothing can ever change that, you're not the same girl anymore. I like your new name. I'm used to it by now. And besides, I think it suits you."_

_"Really?" _Christa had mused, _"you think so?"_

_"Of course."_

Her hair was smooth, silky tresses gliding through the spaces between Ymir's fingers as she smoothed a lock of hair behind her ear, the same way she'd seen the girl do compulsively to herself so many times before.

_"Besides, what kind of fucking name is Historia anyway?"_

She could still hear the smaller girl's laugh.

_"Says someone with a name like Ymir!"_

She brushed her thumb lightly over a pale eyebrow, cherishing the way the girl's breathing suddenly deepened as she entered another layer of sleep.

_"Don't hate, kid. You know you like it."_

_"I do,"_ she'd laughed._ "I do, actually. It's interesting."_

Finally, Ymir's hand broke away from Christa's face. She began to pick up the notebooks on the floor, one by one, before placing them neatly back inside the small suitcase. She layered the clothes back on top of them, sealing Christa's secret away once again.

Pulling on the zipper around it ever so slightly as to not make too much noise and wake the girl that slept near her, Ymir finally closed the suitcase.

_"I'm sorry about tonight, Ymir. I know I ruined it for everyone."_

_"Don't be ridiculous. It wasn't that much fun anyway." _

Ymir slowly turned to see her.

For a moment, she admired the vivacious spirit at rest until her vision became fogged with sleep.

_"Yes, it was,"_ Christa had whispered, almost to herself. _"It was for me, at least."_

How excited everything made the girl, how even the slightest aspects harbored wonders in her eyes... And now Ymir finally knew why. Now she understood why Christa was the way she was. Why she was sensitive and fragile, but also callused and cold.

Two total opposites, and yet there she was, the impossible manifesting balance of both.

_"You know, I was actually kind of scared when I first met you. You seem to know yourself so well, Ymir. I'm just creating myself as I go. There's still so much I have left to learn."_

_"Just be yourself, Christa."_

_"No,"_ the girl had shaken her head. _"Trust me, if you knew how I really was, you wouldn't even want to talk to me."_

Ymir hadn't laughed that hard in a very long time.

_"That's impossible."_

Gently, she finally laid down beside her, her eyes searching the girl's resting features as their previous conversation reverberated within her brain.

_"So what will you do now?"_

_"About what?" _Christa had asked.

_"About your father."_

The silence that followed still echoed within her ears.

"_I don't know,"_ the girl had said after a while. _"What should I do?"_

"_Nothing."_

Ymir closed her eyes.

"_Do nothing Christa. Just stay here with me."_

Behind the darkness of her closed lids, Ymir could wallow on the sound of Christa breathing.

The way her breath swayed and swooned; bloated with every inhale, collapsed with every release of air.

"_Stay here with you?"_

Inhale.

"_Yeah. We could do anything, Christa. Just stay here with me."_

Exhale.

"_Could we really do that?"_

Inhale.

"_I don't see why not."_

Exhale.

"_Hmm. That does sound very nice, doesn't it?"_

Ymir slowly fell asleep beside her.

"_But you told me never to lie to you, Ymir..."_

Despite the tears that formed anew behind her eyelids, Ymir slowly fell asleep.

"_...so I must tell you the truth..."_

The last thing she saw was the girl's gleaming smile.

"_I can't."_

* * *

**A/N: **Oh, God. First of all, thank you so much for reading! I am very thankful for every bit of feedback. It means a great lot and is all appreciated!

Second, this whole chapter was just one scene. Wow.

Third, I realize Christa saying she expected to be dead by this point sounds rather dire and exaggerated, but this is a girl that learned everything she knows from the world by reading fiction books. Her expectations of reality are rather jaded and naïve. Not only that, but what is she supposed to understand about death when she has been made to believe (by the abuse of another) that her life is worthless? It's a contrast between Ymir and Christa that I always liked. Ymir knows far too much about death and understands it. Christa doesn't and constantly undervalues her own life. I can't wait to delve deeper into these characters and ugh there is just so much more I want to say but I don't want to make this AN any longer.

Thank you once again.

(Feel free to leave reviews or PM me if anything. I love hearing from all of you.)

**PS:** The scribbles Ymir reads from Christa's notebook is from Shakespeare's _Hamlet_ Act 2 scene 2. For some reason, I thought it went well with little Christa.

**PPS: **Writing this, I listened non-stop to Damien Rice's _The Blower's Daughter_. Have you heard it yet? It's brought tears to my eyes more times than I can count and is truly stunning! *sniffles*


	5. Part V

_"Stay. Stay with me."_

* * *

**.: Rain :.**

.: Part V :.

* * *

"_But you told me not to lie to you, Ymir. So I must tell you..._

"**I can't**."

Nightmares.

They used to govern Ymir's dreams once, but an uninterrupted expanse of time has passed since she's last dreamt. Dreams are vague and empty these days, uncomplicated displays of black or toneless white. Nothing. Simple, absolute nothing.

But that night, sleeping soundly beside her Christa, Ymir's mind wandered into the depths of subconscious truths, a movie playing in her brain for the first time in years.

She dreamed. Not of people, not of faces, not of anything but of herself.

She was floating, alone. Atop the center of a lake, she hovered like a ghost for what felt like an eternity until her mind sparked with an uncanny realization: She was actually _standing_. She stood over the water as if it were made of glass.

Ymir couldn't move. The world around her was as abyssal and silent as the plate of tainted blue below her. This reminded her, this breathed:

_Something was amiss. _

When she tried to look down at her own hands, she couldn't. Her fingers, her palms, her arms—they weren't there.

Startle, fright, alarm; she felt the emotions burgeon and swivel up inside of her, reeling and reeling like a twister emerging from a storm.

Then she heard it. A girl's voice.

She looked up. She found her.

_Christa?_

On the edge by the far, far end where the lake met the land... Where tall, building-like trees stood sturdy and leaf-less, Christa stood, hollering her name.

Over and over again, she called for her, and when Ymir tried to move her legs to run for her, she couldn't. To her own horror, she saw that her feet were meshed into the water—her entire body was. That was when she realized:

Ymir was the lake itself.

Still, Christa cried. Over and over again, calling her name as her voice grew tight with desperation.

_Ymir, Ymir, Ymir _she bellowed, but Ymir couldn't respond.

Because Ymir didn't exist.

The panic worsened once she realized the girl was actually in trouble. She couldn't see of what, but Christa was in danger.

She had to move. Ymir had to save her.

But she couldn't. She couldn't. The desperation grew wilder until suddenly, a strong tide turned and the water itself turned into a twister.

Like a mirror of her own daunting emotions, the water became black and thick as it spiraled at the center, right on the place where Ymir once thought she stood. A vortex, swallowing everything around it whole along with a loud swooshing noise like a hurricane.

Christa's screams only worsened, until the water drowned the sound itself, absorbing all of it into the lake.

Ymir blinked. Ymir tried to find her. Past the storm of water and black and blue, she tried to find her but found nothing. Nothing at all.

It only took a second for her to realize why.

Ymir had killed her.

The lake had swallowed Christa whole.

* * *

In an instant, Ymir's eyes are snapping open.

"_But why not?"_

She gasps.

"_Why can't you stay?"_

_**Fuck.**_

She squirms and winces in pain, the spectral booming of the words linger inside her ears for a while. They are loud, deafening; a severe cacophony of terror before the strong clasps of her nightmare gradually begin loosening their grip, her golden eyes stare blankly at a sheet of whiteness before reality sets in, the daunting whispers of her dreams dwindling before finally fading altogether.

Her back arched against the hardwood floor, a pain that sprang up her spine seized her tortuously, notch by notch. She squeezed her eyes shut, drew out a shaky puff of breath. It wasn't until she tried to move her arms that she realized there was a thin blanket draped over her, a soft pillow propped under her head.

She sighed. Christa must've done that out of kindness, but right now, it suffocated her. She sat up, peeling the blanket off her like if it were on fire before letting her face fall into her hands. She felt hot, feverish, sweat sticking her clothes to her body as she rubbed her sore eyes with the heels of her palms and tried to even out her breathing.

"Oh!" She heard Christa gasp, the sound of her lisp, breathless voice causing her to stiffen. "I'm sorry. Did I wake you?"

Ymir didn't answer her. She couldn't. Not yet. _Fuck_. _What a fucking nightmare._

She couldn't really fathom it. When was the last time she'd even dreamt? Not even in the worst of blackouts after long nights of drinking and mindless fucking around had she known such deep, uninterrupted slumber. The tremors of the aftermath still shook within her, rattling her bones and causing her uneasiness at the thought that...

She hadn't ever dreamt, actually. At least not since... the day before she first came to this city.

At this, she let out a tiny chuckle. She was tempted to mumble out under her breath, to casually tell Christa of her silly dream, but she knew this would only alarm the girl, so Ymir chose to sigh instead, to force herself to finally look up at her.

And of course, Christa was there. She was safe. She was real. It had only been a nightmare, but she couldn't help the warm wave of relief that washed through her when she found the girl sitting happily on the couch before her, her legs propped up on the cushion, a mug of coffee in her hands, her blue eyes fixed intently onto the TV screen with the weather channel playing practically on mute. Ymir blinked at the sight of her, noticing she'd changed into jeans and a pale pink sweatshirt. She'd even washed her hair. Nice.

Ymir had to force herself to speak. "What time is it?" she asked.

"It's ten o'clock," Christa replied with a smile. "You only slept for a few hours."

The brunette blinked groggily for a moment. "I feel like shit," she croaked, rising clumsily to her feet. In truth, she felt worse. She felt_ disgusting_. In dire need of a scalding shower, actually.

"You look it too," Christa teased lightly, hiding her smirk into the mug before taking a long sip.

Ymir staggered drunkenly towards the bathroom, muttering over her shoulder, "I'm taking a shower," then shutting the door behind her so quickly she couldn't even hear Christa's reply_._

She worked herself hastily out of her clothing. Her shoes, her shirt, her pants, underwear—it all went flying across the bathroom before she wretched the shower curtain open, hopped inside, turned the knobs to hot water and waited for the steaming rain to bombard her.

For a long while, Ymir stood under the pouring heat without moving, feeling the water wash down her slender frame as the internal quakes of troubled sleep finally deserted her, replaced only by the bitter reminder of last night's conversations with Christa as they bubbled back onto the surface of her mind.

"_But why not?"_

"_Ymir_—_"_

"_Why can't you stay?"_

Annoyed, Ymir clutched the bar of soap and started cleaning herself, vigorously rubbing the thing over her body as if the effort were enough to remove not only the external grime that polluted her, but the internal one as well.

"_I'm tired, Ymir. I'm so tired."_

Right. Of course.

Ymir sighed, waiting for the water to wash away all the soapsuds before scrubbing again. Her skin burned under the vigorous motions, but she ignored the pain.

"_But Christa_—_"_

"_Tomorrow."_

She scrubbed until her skin felt raw.

"_We can talk about this tomorrow, okay?"_

Wincing at the burning heat of the drops that pelted violently against her, Ymir reminded herself to stop, breathe, recompose her unsettling thoughts in that same way she'd taught herself to do so expertly many years ago.

_Just take it easy, Ymir,_ she told herself. _Breathe._

She couldn't be angry—she already knew better than that. Christa had a reason for everything. A reason for her being, for her negating comments, for avoiding certain topics. She knew Christa grew emotionless and cold when she spoke of the things that hurt her the most, happy and bubbling over with emotion when she spoke of the things she loved best. Ymir was just annoyed because she was still mildly delirious from her stupid nightmare, right? Nothing was actually wrong here... Nothing was actually wrong.

_So just give her time, Ymir._ _Just give her time._

_But_—

**But just how much time do they have left?**

In an instant, Ymir's skin went pale. She stiffened, the searing water of the shower causing patches of red to bloom upon her skin while she stood motionless.

_That's right_.

She'd already been fired from her entry-level job. Reiner had bombarded her phone with messages of _I need to see you. Where are you? We need to talk._

Shit.

Frustrated, Ymir bowed her head under the shower head and let the heat melt the back of her head, her neck, the primal place of her thought-induced headache. Her back didn't hurt anymore. Now it was just the very core of her fucking _mind_.

Ymir couldn't deny it. _Time was running out._

Before the vestiges of panic could rekindle to life within her, she suddenly heard a loud, shattering crash.

_Smash!_

Her head jerked upwards in alarm. She felt herself begin to worry, her mouth already stretching to call out for Christa before she heard her crying out apologetically:

"_Sorrrryyyy!_"

Ymir scoffed. That kid. Always so damn clumsy.

Lazily, she basked under the heat for a bit longer until her limbs felt like jelly and she feared she might actually melt into the damn tub. She turned the knobs to shut the water off, then pulled the shower curtain open before reaching for her towel and realizing—

She'd forgotten to bring in some clothes.

Well. Shit.

After promptly wrapping a towel around herself, she stepped out one foot at a time, treading lightly on her feet as she exited the bathroom, sneaked her way past the opened door in her bedroom and started rummaging inside her drawers for clean clothes.

"Ymir?" she heard Christa call for her.

"Yes?"

"I need you."

Ymir straightened up, frightened by the troubled tone in Christa's voice. "What is it?" she shouted.

"Um," Christa's voice was shaky. "I think it's best if you saw for yourself."

"Just hold on a minute, okay? I'm busy."

"Ymir," Christa insisted, her voice growing smaller. Ymir stopped searching through the drawers, already turning on her heels when she heard Christa say, "I think it's best if you saw this now."

_Alright. She wants to fucking see me naked? So be it._

* * *

Inside the kitchen, Christa carefully tried to pick up every large shard of glass, wincing with dread as she pulled the biggest chunks up and dumped them gently into the trash bin, careful not cut herself.

"What?"

When she looked up, she sprang quickly to her feet, her cheeks tingeing with red as heat suddenly flushed them.

Ymir stood on the doorway of the kitchen with nothing but a towel covering her frame.

"Um," Christa sighed out shakily, fixing a lock of hair behind her ear. "It fell."

Ymir's eyes bored dully onto the mess on the ground before her. _Well, no shit it fell_.

The coffee pot was utterly destroyed. Traces of it scattered all over as a large puddle of black coffee slowly seeped into the thin gritty spaces between the tiles, _stinking_. The stench made Ymir's nose twitch, her stomach turning at the putrid smell of that spit she loathed so fucking much.

"What did you do?" she raised a brow at Christa, trying not to release the amused snicker that strained behind her lips.

The small girl lowered her gaze coyly, avoiding looking at her directly. "I was distracted," she muttered, her voice indistinct. "I was trying to listen to the news."

Ymir glanced over her shoulder to the TV. A thin woman with black, cropped hair and a scar below her eye rambled on mutely before a green screen predicting the weather.

She stared back at Christa.

The smaller girl swallowed. Hard.

"They say there's a huge storm coming in tonight," she added, trying to lighten up the mood, not entirely sure where she was going with that. "One of the worst in the season."

Ymir made her way towards the puddle on the floor. "I never believe that shit."

"Careful!" Christa cried, holding out her hand. "You might step on one."

"Don't worry." Ymir carefully avoided every shard of glass, walking past Christa and to the tiny closet where all the cleaning supplies were kept.

"You're not mad?" Christa asked, not even turning to face her.

"Of course not." Ymir shrugged, passing a broom over to her. "Let's just make sure to clean this up. We'll act like it never happened, alright?"

Slowly, Christa nodded her head, trying her damnest to avoid making eye contact.

The brunette snorted quietly, shaking her head. What's wrong with her? Why's Christa acting like that? All sheepish and coy?

Ymir didn't know this, but even after two long weeks, her piercing, gilded gaze never faltered at intimidating the smaller girl. There was no coherent reason for Christa to feel that way, but even after their friendship had already bloomed and blossomed—even after what happened the night before—the golden metallic of Ymir's irises always managed to see right through to her, right through and into what_ really_ mattered.

Christa felt vulnerable and naked before her, even though she was the only one actually wearing any clothes.

"Well then." Ymir cleared her throat, making her way to pick up the black handle of the shattered coffee pot. She collected any last pieces while feigning a mournful look, as if she wasn't utterly _ecstatic_ at the fact she didn't have to be smelling that shit brewing in the mornings anymore.

Silently, however, the smaller girl allowed herself to eye her. And then, before she even knew what she was doing, Christa found herself gaping at the gentle muscles carved onto Ymir's back, stretching along her long slender arms and ending merely at her fingertips. And the scars—they were everywhere. They dotted a map across her tanned skin, outmatched by nothing more than her freckles.

Christa gulped. Those damned freckles. Under the beads of water that still lingered on her skin, they seemed almost ethereal. Like stardust. Like fallen stars from heaven who found their homes on Ymir's skin.

But then Christa was abruptly shaken from her trance. Ymir was standing right before her now, merely an arm's length away and the smaller girl suddenly felt faint.

"Have fun cleaning," Ymir told her, an amused undertone threaded through her voice beneath that damn smirk she wore so well, and so damn often. Christa shuddered involuntarily, daring herself to make eye contact (for a sliver of a second, if that) before the taller girl turned to walk away.

When Christa was alone again inside the kitchen, she carefully began to sweep up all the tiny shards of glass that sprayed about the kitchen floor, some tiny bits crumbling beneath her shoe. How Ymir had managed to walk barefoot upon this mess was utterly beyond her and...

_Ymir..._

Christa hid her face inside her hands, literally _feeling _her face burn red as she recalled the constellation of dots on her shoulders, her arms, her neck. How frighteningly large and deep that scar on the back of her shoulder seemed to be. How her cheeks were stained with red from the remnant heat of a warm shower and how her short, dark hair curled at the ends just above her collarbones, tiny beads of water falling off them and down her freckle-dusted chest.

_Oh, stop it, Historia!_

The girl nearly slapped herself, sweeping the same spot a few times mindlessly before she realized what she was even doing.

With a fretful sigh, Christa plunged down onto her knees, dampened kitchen towel at hand as she began to clean up the ugly mess, calmly telling herself to _keep yourself together, girl. _

_Just keep it all together._

* * *

Back inside the bedroom, Ymir chuckled lightly to herself in modest delight (okay, it wasn't really all that modest) before peeling off the towel from her body and working herself into a clean set of clothes. She hadn't even bothered to shut the door behind her. A shit-eating grin was etched onto her smug face.

Maybe it was a bit vain of her, but she loved how easily she could manage to get under Christa's skin. It amused her._ It made her happy_.

Ymir she truly wished, as she squeezed herself into a pair of black denim jeans and worked herself into a random sweater, that she would get the chance to participate in the act for a tad bit longer.

Just a bit longer.

* * *

The wind was picking up outside. Tree leaves rustled with a sibilant hiss, the hish growing stronger as Ymir heard Christa slowly ratchet up the volume on the TV.

"_**And as the rain storm approaches the area, we can expect two to four inches of rain within the first hour..."**_

Ymir had actually taken her sweet time getting dressed, brushing her teeth, working a small comb through the knots in her hair and cursing the ever-living shit out of them in the process. Her scalp still hurt from the endeavor when she sat herself down on the bed, eyes boring coldly at the world outside her window, at the wind that blew mercilessly with the foreshadowing of more rain.

Rain.

How much Ymir had convinced herself she loved it. But, sitting quietly atop the edge of her bed, she realized that the thought of it actually caused a prick of woe to scathe something within her. She couldn't point out where or why, but the prick merely worsened into a wound, and Ymir began to feel pain. Yeah._ Pain_.

Real, physical pain congested the passages of her lungs. She found herself breathing heavily, painfully, suddenly and incoherently appropriated of all air.

**Dread**. She felt worry and dread, and she couldn't really understand why but it hurt her. A physical, worrisome turbulence like the one happening outside. What with the tree leaves rustling and the car horns beeping and people scrambling for shelter outside, Ymir felt the world suddenly resemble what was going on within her:

A mess. A God awful, fucking mess.

She heard the faucet of the kitchen running for a while, imagined Christa's movements when she caught the twisting creak of the knob as she shut the water off, her footsteps following as she made her way quietly into the living room.

Christa.

This was her home now. This tiny, constricted apartment Ymir had never even paid rent for—this was her home.

But Ymir understood the weight of what had happened last night, of all the girl had confessed to her, and what the very revelation of her existence truly meant. She had to think about it. Ymir _really_ had to think, to take into consideration all the things that were taking place without bullshitting herself at all in the process.

First and foremost, Christa was alone in the world—very much like herself. But in contrast to Ymir, Christa had parents—and even worse, a very loving father. A very loving father who sought after her. Who had **been** seeking after her.

Ymir squeezed her eyes shut, the howling of the wind outside temporarily growing worse as she ran a hand through her dampened hair, disheveling it even more in the process.

She could still hear the words her father had said to her. His "_it's you! It's really you!". _His _"Your mother. She wouldn't let me see you!" _

She could still see the way he'd walked towards her... so carefully. So fearful. The way he ran his thumbs over his own daughter's bruises. His own child. His own flesh.

She remembered how he had cried—a grown, aged man spilling clear, swift streams of tears as he walked towards his child. She remembered how he'd stared horridly back at her, and could still feel the bone of his Adam's apple bobbing against her fists when she'd pinned him to the wall, choked him, swore to fucking kill him.

And then she'd suddenly seen it: those familiar piercing, sapphire eyes. The ones Christa crinkled up when she smiled, hid behind her palms when she cried—they were_ there_, etched in exact replication onto his face.

Ymir sighed. She'd never had a father. "Daddy" had left before she could even talk, so the love that man must have for Christa, the one she must inexplicably return for him, Ymir wouldn't ever be able to understand it. She sighed because she knew that.

And then, there was the weight of Christa's other limitations. Some that, even to Ymir, seemed cruelly inhumane.

Christa had never gone to school. This meant that everything she knew, she had to learn entirely by herself and from her books starting from the point in time when her own father had left her, and when Freida wasn't there to help.

Finally, Ymir opened her eyes, asked herself a dire question:

_Can I really help her?_ Could Ymir really show her what there was to the world when she hardly understood it herself?

And what about what Christa had said last night? Ymir offered her to stay with her and she'd said:

"**I can't.**"

Why? _Why ever the fuck not?_

She stood from the bed. Began to pace.

Yes, she had to do it. She had to ask her. _Why can't you stay with me Christa? What is it that I've done wrong? Do you not like my apartment? My air? The way I drive? What is it? Tell me, what is it?_

Or...

Shit. Maybe not.

What if _asking_ her merely drew the girl away? What if it scared her instead and pushed her further apart from Ymir? Ymir didn't want that. By God, she didn't want that at all.

She groaned, her face buried inside her hands as she collapsed back onto the bed and bounced on her back a few times before sinking into the mattress.

It was such a hassle dealing with people. She never knew what to say, what to do, what was right or wrong. But this was _Christa_. We're talking about _Christa_ here. The very incarnation of Ymir's favorite things so...

"_**The low temperatures, high winds, and severe rainfall have the potential to create dangerous driving conditions and..."**_

Ymir took a deep breath. Then another one.

She couldn't lose her. Maybe it was pathetic, but Ymir simply couldn't bare to lose Christa. Not ever. Not at all.

The wind swooshed loudly against the windows outside, its hissing whispers creepy and eerie as Ymir slowly sat upright on the bed.

There was also, she knew, the matter of her own conditions. Ymir wasn't a good person. Ymir was a **selfish** person, and thus she had never cared for the damage she may have caused onto another as long as it brought benefit to herself. That's how she'd always been. Always.

But then, at work (her _real_ work) she'd gotten into serious trouble. She knew Reiner was mad. No, he was _furious_. Ymir knew it was only a matter of time before the others started asking, wondering, implying, coming to conclusions. Branding her a criminal, a murderer, a thief...

That's right.

**Ymir didn't have much time left herself.**

She had to make a decision. She had to do it now!

Alright. She was just going to do it. Fuck it. She'll just go do it right this very second.

With a start, she pushed herself off the bed, intently trotting her way into the living room before glancing at the TV, then averting her gaze onto the sofa.

Christa wasn't there.

Where was she? She couldn't still be cleaning, could she?

Ymir cleared her throat, hastily making her way into the kitchen before stopping just below the door frame and finding the girl still hunched over on the ground, scrubbing relentlessly at the already spot-less tiles.

"Christa," Ymir uttered, and the girl's eyes jolted upwards to meet her.

Christa blinked at the sight of Ymir leaning against the door frame, fully clothed in jeans and a dark sweater. The sleeves were rolled up to her elbows and her forearms flexed slightly as she crossed her arms over her chest, lips curved into that permanent mischievous smirk she seemingly could never get rid of.

"Yes?" Christa said, continuing her compulsive scouring as she drilled her eyes back onto the tiles on the floor.

"It's all clean," Ymir noted, gawking at the rather flustered girl on the floor as the smile on her lips slowly faded from her face.

"No. I'm trying to get rid of the smell."

"What smell? Christa, the smell's gone now."

"No," the girl corrected. "_I _can still smell it."

At this, Ymir shut her mouth. She knew what this was about. She knew what Christa was doing. After waiting a few seconds, she lowered herself onto one knee beside her, allowing her hand to land gently upon Christa's and causing the girl to stop.

"You're not at your mom's anymore," she told her, voice soft. "You don't need to do all that. I promise I'm not mad at you."

Christa blinked at their touching hands, her eyes slowly trailing up the length of Ymir's arm before landing flatly on her face. "Ymir," the girl droned. "This belonged to the neighbors and I _broke _it. What am I going to do? How am I ever supposed to repay them?"

Ymir snorted, a keen chuckled rumbled past her throat as she shook her head and removed her hand from above the pallid surface of Christa's. "Don't worry about that, Christa. I'm sure they forgot about it anyway."

"No," Christa shook her head, sounding more and more like a stubborn child by the second. "But they _gave_ it to us! We can't just leave it like this."

"Christa, it's just a coffee pot."

"No, Ymir." Christa's voice was stern, warning she was at the edge of her patience. "No. We _have_ to pay them back. You can never accept a favor unless you return it!"

"_Alriiiight._" Ymir finally capitulated and rolled her eyes. "I'll buy them a new pot then, alright? I'll buy them one and they won't have the right to say jack shit about it."

Christa opened her mouth to speak, but then closed it just as quickly. The girl pursed her lips tightly, her hand releasing its grasp on the towel before she slumped back to sit on the floor haplessly. She let out a long sigh.

She was silent, a torrent of emotions storming within her gaze, a waterspout agitating the calm ocean blue in her eyes. She didn't have to say anything for Ymir to understand. She could pick up on the girl's distress just by looking at her.

"I'm sorry, Christa," Ymir murmured, apologizing for only the second time in her life. Her voice came out so gentle, she surprised even herself. "I didn't mean to snap at you. I know how you are. If you want, we can go buy them a brand new coffee set right now! You get to pick. Sound like a deal?"

"Ymir." The girl sighed heavily, raising her knees to hug them against her own chest. "I'm sorry for making such a big fuss about it. I'm just feeling kind of stressed lately, is all."

"Why is that?"

"_**We strongly advice for everyone to stay home this evening..."**_

Christa was silent, her eyes staring off at nothing in particular as she perched her chin over her knees.

"Christa," Ymir pressed, and the girl finally met her gaze. "Is it because of your father?"

Silence.

Ymir swallowed, daring herself to muster the words that had to follow. She had to will herself to say it. She had to. "Can we talk about that, please?"

"I'm..." Christa paused, hesitated, drawing a deep breath as she hugged her legs closer. "I don't feel like talking about that right now."

"But we have to!" Ymir blurted out before she could even think. She cleared her throat at the way Christa's eyes winced at her reaction. "Tell me, Christa," she prompted. "Why did you say what you did last night?"

The girl narrowed her eyes at her. "About what?"

"Before you went to sleep,"—Ymir took a deep breath—"you told me that you couldn't stay with me."

At this, Christa dropped her gaze from Ymir's face. This almost discouraged her, but Ymir still forced herself to push further onward.

"Tell me," she voiced gently. "What's wrong?"

"There's..." The girl sighed regretfully. "There's one more thing I lied to you about, Ymir."

"Okay." Ymir nodded slowly, bracing herself. "Which is?"

"My age," Christa mumbled, her eyes avoiding hers.

Ymir gaped at the girl quietly, seeing the way she recoiled once again into her own shell and how not even a sliver of emotion held presence in her features when locked eyes with her and confessed, "I'm not actually eighteen."

Ymir chuckled lightly. "Oh, so you _are_ twelve, after all?"

"No, dummy." Christa prodded her leg lightly with her foot. "I'm seven-teen."

At this, Ymir raised her brows quizzically. That was only two years younger than herself.

"That's not so bad."

"It's not," Christa agreed, but by the far-off look in her eyes and the heavy tone in her voice, Ymir could tell something was still troubling her.

"Christa," Ymir voiced after a moment of silence. "What is it?"

Christa sighed. She knew full and well she would just have to lay out the cold truth, nothing but honesty. There was no way for her to work her way around this one so...

"That _means_," she began, drawing out each syllable carefully, "that I'm not legally an adult. I'm not very familiar with the laws, but I know that until you're eight-teen, an adult is in insured of holding custody of you."

Ymir blinked. "So..."

"So I still belong to my mother," Christa announced grimly. "My mother still holds custody over me, Ymir."

After that, the girls sat in silence next to each other, the truth stabbing painstakingly slow into Ymir's brain before she fully grasped the weight of its existence.

She knew it. She knew something had to go wrong. Something was just _waiting_ to turn it all askew.

The woman on the TV still droned about the upcoming weather:

"_**Although no delays or closings have been announced as of yet, the latest updates on school closures say..."**_

Ymir twitched.

Annoyed, she rose to her feet, trotted into the living room and shut off the damned apparatus with a punch of her thumb to the power button on the remote control.

When she returned to the kitchen, she stopped just below the door frame and leaned against it before crossing her arms steely over her chest. The girl still sat with her knees tucked to herself on the ground, her sapphire gaze cold and distant.

"**So what will you do?**"

Slowly, Christa raised her gaze at the question, eyes searching the tall girl that stared down at her like a looming gargoyle. She remained silent. It's not that she didn't want to answer Ymir, but she just didn't know how. Gradually, she allowed her gaze to fall, her eyes obscure and occult as they stared at absolutely nothing. Her mouth twitched with the itch to say words, but without the knowledge to know how.

After a long moment of silence, Ymir finally grew impatient.

"Christa," she challenged, her voice stern. "What. Will. You do?"

"I don't know," the girl muttered faintly, still avoiding meeting her gaze.

With the sound of the TV no longer in the background, their silence hung heavily upon the air. Heavily enough to bother, to _annoy_.

"Yes you do," Ymir said peevishly, and Christa blinked, her blue eyes retaining that cold and callused shell she'd seen enough times before but yet never failed to take her by surprise.

The girl sighed. "I'm not in the mood, Ymir."

Without another word, Christa lifted herself off the ground, rising steadily onto her feet before attempting an impulsive escape. She was halfway past Ymir when suddenly—

She gasped.

Reflexively, Ymir's body had moved entirely by itself. She stood suddenly in Christa's way, causing the smaller girl's eyes to flicker up in alarm._ Wrong move, Ymir._ Wrong move.

"What—?" Christa flustered, intimidated. She'd nearly bounced off Ymir's chest before retreating, making her way back into the kitchen like a cornered cat.

Ymir froze, balked, wondered if she'd gone a bit too far. But the damage was already done now, and they no longer held the luxury of time. She knew what was coming for her, and she needed to know. She needed to know_** now**_.

Yet she couldn't help the string of regret that tugged at her chest, not with the way Christa shook her head at her. Not with the way she disgraced her with a glare of utter disappointment.

"You're being a real dick, Ymir."

"Oh," Ymir heaved, slightly offended by the comment but more taken aback by the fact Christa had just given her her first insult. "I'm sorry."

"No you're not," Christa seethed venomously, her pale cheeks flushing red with anger. "You like messing with people, and now you're turning on to me."

"I am not," Ymir defended. "Christa, I'm just—"

"Just—" She squeezed her eyes shut, held the heels of her palms against her ears before shouting, "Shut up!"

Ymir's eyes grew wide, jaw falling slack.

Wait. _What?_

"Christa," she uttered faintly. Her hands reached out for the girl absent-mindedly, as if from a desperate underlying attempt to make sense of her, to recognize her. "What's wrong with you?"

"No, what the hell is wrong with _you_? "

"Stop," Ymir warned, holding up her hand. "You don't want to be like that."

"Or what?" Christa scoffed, her tiny frame growing larger by the second. "You'll hit me? You'll throw me out?"

Ymir gritted her teeth. "Christa."

"You'll turn me in to the police? Tell them I'm a runaway?"

"Christa!"

"How could you stand in my way like that, Ymir? What the hell is wrong with you?! How could you chast—"

"Hey!" Ymir's tone was sharp, and the girl stiffened immediately.

Despite her heated tone, Ymir wasn't angry. She swallowed, trying had to soften her voice again as she walked closer, unaware of herself.

"Calm down," she whispered soothingly, despite the flicker of tumultuous dread and fear that sparked aflame within her, that screamed and rattled for her to move, to run, to shake Christa's shoulders and make her snap out of it because they could hardly afford the time. "Just breathe for a second, okay?"

She wasn't used to this side of Christa at all. The girl's face had turned completely red, her eyes averting away from hers quickly, a deep river of feeling returning into the frozen blue of her eyes.

Christa stared doubtfully at the ground below her, biting painfully into her lower lip until she felt she could draw out blood.

_What was happening to her?_ She'd never been like that before. And she'd even snapped at Ymir! She had no right. Christa had no right to do that.

She felt... **bad**. Ashamed. Regret and remorse bubbled up within her when she caught a glimpse of Ymir's wounded face, and it was all she could do not to cry, not to spill over with self-hatred after what she'd just done.

Her hands shakily smoothed some locks of hair away from her face as she sighed, knowing full and well Ymir didn't deserve that.

"I'm—" Christa's voice shook suddenly. She screwed her eyes shut. _Do not cry, Historia. Whatever you do, do not cry. _"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be so stupid. I told you you wouldn't like me if you knew what I was really like."

"Please." Ymir shook her head, suddenly realizing she wasn't standing by the door anymore. She'd found her place right before Christa, holding out her palms to the girl in a way that resembled vulnerability. At the realization, she stuffed her hands into her pockets defensively and cleared her throat before continuing.

"You're just on edge, Christa. Something's bothering you. I know you. Tell me what's wrong. _Please_? What is it you have to tell me?"

Oh, wow. Ymir never seized to amaze herself these days. Now she she was begging.

Pleading.

She scoffed. She'd** never** swooped low enough to beg to anyone before, not even when she was just a lowly beggar on the streets.

"I'm worried, Ymir," Christa uttered, her tone heavy and brittle with angst. "I'm very, very worried. You know, my dad has found me now, and it's only a matter of time before he decides to do something about that. I doubt he'll just stand by, and I'm frightened by that. I'm scared he'll take me back. That he'll force me back to Mom and..."

Christa trailed off, her eyes pooling with tears before she squeezed them shut, fighting all her weaknesses away stubbornly and willing herself to be strong, to be stronger that she'd ever been before as she pushed out the sharp pain that accompanied her words.

"I don't want that, Ymir. I don't want that. If I go back, I'll never escape again. I know this. I want to stay _here_. I want to stay with you. But I'm afraid— I'm afraid because I just don't know _how_."

Ymir swallowed. When she spoke, her tone was mild; soft. "Do you really think your dad will do that?"

"I don't know." Christa shrugged and shook her head. "I don't know him anymore."

"But... Didn't you tell me he was kind to you once? That he was a loving father?"

"Once," Christa sighed. "But I know for a fact that people change. My own mother taught me that."

Ymir felt her hands ball into fists. She swallowed again, closed her eyes, knowing full and well what this would undoubtedly lead up to.

"But,"—she stopped, breathed—"what about the way he acted when he saw you at the party last night? He seemed to really love you, right? Like... he wouldn't do that to you?"

Christa said nothing.

Ymir pursed her lips into a flat line.

She knew it. She knew it by her own tone. Ymir was speaking from a place full of false hope, and there was nothing Christa could offer to alleviate the worsening loss of hope, the burgeoning presence of fear.

"Ymir," Christa sighed. "I really don't know what to tell you. Since he found me, that means he'll find a way to get to me. Whether he is kind or not, I _am_ his daughter and he_ is_ my dad. He has a right to claim me as long as I'm under-aged."

"Well then—" Ymir couldn't help it. She had to push on.

_She just had to **try**. _

"Then we'll run away together Christa! Fuck your dad. Fuck your mom! You're seven-teen—So what? That's only a year away from being legal. We can wait that long!"

"Ymir, please." Christa chewed on her lip, her eyes glistening for a brief second before she swallowed, a ritualized string of expressions Ymir already knew full and well.

Unfathomably, that was when Ymir felt something inside of her tear, break. She tried to breathe, realizing suddenly that she couldn't. Something was slipping away from her now. She could feel it. She couldn't explain it, but she could _feel_ it. Little by little, everything—**everything**—was slipping away.

Slipping helplessly, right through the cracks of her own fingers.

"Christa." Ymir's mouth spoke by itself. She couldn't fight it. She was speaking from an urge too strong, too natural. Reminiscent of the need to yawn, or gasp, or _breathe_. "Christa. _Please_. Just _think_ about this. **We can do this. **We can run away together. You don't need your parents, do you? You have _me_! You have _me_ entirely. Isn't that enough?"

Quiet.

Christa was... so quiet. It was daunting. Ymir felt herself tear even more, her heart hammering wildly within her chest with a pump of adrenaline as she felt it._ She felt it_.

Panic.

"I..." Christa closed her eyes, fighting back against her own tears. "I want that, Ymir. I want that so, _so_ badly. I don't think I can begin to explain how happy that would make me. Really. That is all I want but—"

"Then let's do it!"

"_We can't_" she hissed painfully.

"Yes, we can!"

"No," Christa shook her head vigorously, her voice heavy and caught within her throat as her eyes began to glisten once again. "No, Ymir. I can't."

"Why?" Ymir's voice was tight. Desperate. "_Why not_?"

"Because! Because that would only brand you a criminal, Ymir. That would make you responsible for me and put you in danger. Who knows what Dad might do? Who knows if he'll try to press charges against you? He's a lawyer, did you know that? He's got power and connections and I know—I _know_ he can get you under his boot if he wanted. "

"What?" Ymir scoffed. "Are you serious? So what if he presses charges? Christa, you think I really care about that? I've gotten my way out of worst things, kid. Trust me."

"No, Ymir. Take this seriously."

"I am!"

"You're speaking recklessly."

"Of what?"

"Of—" Christa stammered, waving her hands in search for words. "Of everything!"

"Christa." Ymir lowered her tone. "Seriously. Your father doesn't fucking scare me. Plus, if he's so damn powerful and has so many connections then why didn't he go after you? Why didn't he find you? Why didn't your strong, lawyer daddy save you from your mom?"

"Y—" Christa stuttered, her mouth opening but closing immediately with a wince. Ymir picked at the flesh of a wound she knew was far too raw, but she didn't care. She had to keep pushing. She had to keep insisting that Christa lay out her true words, what she_ truly_ meant to say.

"You're being unfair," the smaller girl protested weakly.

"Why? Because I'm pushing you? Because I'm testing you? Think about this, Christa. What do you have to lose? Just come with me. Come with me and no matter where we are I will protect you! I mean it. I _promise!_"

"Ymir," Christa's eyes began to water severely, her breaths escaping her in ragged intervals as she fought against the pain stabbing and coiling in her chest. "_Please_, stop."

"Why?"

"_Please_."

Ymir groaned in exasperation. "Why can't you just answer me, Christa? Don't be scared of hurting me. Just tell me yes or no!"

Suddenly, the smaller girl exploded.

"I'm_ scared!_" she cried, her fists slamming brutally against the sides of her legs. "Can't you see that? I'm scared and I don't know what to do! I'm just— I'm scared of Dad and Mom and of myself and of you—"

"Of me?"

"I don't want to keep worrying about whether I'll get to live to see the next day—"

"You don't have to."

"I don't want to keep crying in the middle of my sleep, Ymir—"

"Christa."

"Or worrying that I'll get killed or beaten to death like some meaningless animal or—"

"Christa." Ymir's feet began to step forward. She started, raced onward, not once bothering to protest against her sudden impulses because by _God_, something was possessing her and Ymir had already lost herself so long ago.

"I don't want to be _sad_, Ymir," the girl belabored desperately. "I don't want to be constantly in panic or dread and just so fucking _hopeless_. I'm damn tired of being so—"

"**Then don't**."

Instantly, it all stopped.

Christa froze, gasped, her eyes widened with shock.

Ymir's hands were gripping her shoulders tightly, her nails digging into her pallid skin. She'd given Christa a vehement shake once she'd grasped her, her face standing merely inches away from hers. So close Christa could feel the ends of her dark hair tickling her own face as she stared back, startled.

"You don't have to be," Ymir whispered fervently, pouring all of herself into the girl. "You don't have to be scared, Christa. Not of anything. _Not with me_."

Slowly, Christa's lips parted, inhaling and releasing soft puffs of air while tears finally fell from her eyes and glistened down the sides of her face. Not even a slither of her expression shifted as she gaped at Ymir in awe, her frozen features carved from a stony block of ice.

"Ymir," she sighed shakily, but Christa couldn't conjure up the words that had to follow. She couldn't speak at all.

For the first time in her life, Ymir truly begged. Now, she finally did it. She freed her own heart from the cellar that was her chest, unshackled the chains that had imprisoned it for ages and laid it flatly atop the gentle bed of Christa's palms.

Ymir pleaded, implored. Whispered:

"_Stay._"

The smaller girl's eyes winced. Her mouth slowly hung agape, her breath hitching within her throat and rendering her incapable of speech. Ymir's fingers practically dented her skin as her grip on her merely tightened with need, with desperation.

"_**Stay**_," Ymir whispered again, this time closing her own eyes. "_**Stay with me.**_"

Christa closed her mouth before drawing out a long, heaving breath.

Her lips slowly parted, unbidden when, at that moment, the ice in her expression finally began to melt. She was soft, mild, giving Ymir a look that resembled, if not curiosity, then wonder.

Her hand suddenly began to rise up from her side. Like two mountains carved from stone, neither of the girls moved. Only Christa's hand made its way up from the untraversable space between them. Slowly, hesitantly, reaching for something until it found its rightful place.

Right there, upon the warmth of Ymir's face.

Carefully, Christa traced her fingers on the taller girl's cheek, letting them linger for a while and capturing the heat that radiated off her skin.

Hot. Ymir's skin was a burning furnace under the tips of Christa's thawing fingers. She allowed her eyes to gradually peel open, feeling the smooth surface of the girl's palm settling against her cheek as she gently cupped one side of her face.

Christa opened her own mouth, suddenly not knowing what to do. Breathe or speak—she'd forgotten how to do both. She froze, unsure, uncertain; until her fingers bolted to a wake, and they traced and found their rightful place somewhere else.

Right there, upon the valley of Ymir's lips.

Her blue eyes wandered all over. From Ymir's cheeks to her nose, to her eyes, to her chin, to her mouth; drawing an invisible map as she searched the dotted stars that formed the constellations on her face, the endless ocean of tan that stretched on beautifully beneath them, covering her whole face unmarred except for a tiny scar beneath her chin, a thin line of healed skin over the arch of her left brow.

Then her eyes landed bravely upon her own fingers, marveling at their own courage as they lingered, stayed, said the things Christa couldn't will herself to pronounce just yet. Not just yet.

She pushed, pressed them lightly against Ymir's mouth as she gawked at them; the way they sunk slightly into her lips, the warmth her breath emitted as it fogged against her fingertips. The tears that once blurred her vision altogether disappeared as Christa stared, and she was captivated. Utterly bewitched.

Ymir's body had long gone stiff. Her breaths escaped her sporadically, her heart thumping violently within her own chest as time suddenly stood still. She couldn't speak, but it's not like she would've wanted to anyway. Her response, right then, was nothing as Christa studied the way her long lashes settled when she blinked, the way the wind outside had become muted with the solemn silence they both shared, and then suddenly nothing was enough.

At that second, Christa began to move. As if under an enchantment cast from her own spell, the girl leaned forward, her lids suddenly too heavy for her own eyes and screaming to fall shut, willing her to surrender.

Christa wanted this. By God, she truly wanted this. She knew this with her whole, entire heart.

The seconds hung low, steady, the way it does when lovers meet in story books. Christa was overcome by a bravery she didn't know existed, one she didn't even know that she possessed.

She could kiss her. The tip of Ymir's nose was already grazing the side of hers, her breath already burning her lips and she was there. She could've done it._ She could have_.

But she didn't.

She stopped, her breathing all together ceased as Ymir's only deepened with the thought—the realization—that this was all just too _fucking cruel_. It would be too cruel, too selfish, too harmful to kiss Ymir. To entrap her and say _yes, _when Christa didn't even know the real answer herself_._

_**But that was all she wanted to say.**_ Christa wanted to say _yes_. With everything within her, she wanted to. But she was afraid. So suddenly afraid of the consequences of her actions and of her father as he sprang back into her mind. The ghosts of her existence stubbornly seized her and she was haunted by her mother, her dad, Frieda, her mistakes, the fists that would hail over her if she were ever to take the wrong move, make a slight mistake.

She blinked, her breath escaping her with one long, heavy sigh as the girl shut her eyes. Defeated. She pulled back slowly, realizing she'd been standing on her tippy toes to make up for the height difference like a little girl.

When Ymir looked down at her, her own face suddenly hot and burning, she felt something within herself plummet at the shame of it all. It didn't take her two seconds to realize what Christa had just done.

**So this was her answer, then.**

Without a word, Ymir understood. She stood silently, gaping at the girl for a moment—just a moment longer. Maybe if she waited, Christa would change her mind.

Maybe now, if she just waits, Christa will unveil that incandescent grin of hers and say _yes. Yes, I'll go with you, Ymir. I promise you I'll stay._

Those were the words. That was all Ymir wanted to hear.

But who the fuck was she kidding. How could Ymir ever be this dumb? Christa couldn't give that to her. Nobody in the entire world could.

Finally, the girl let her hand fall from her mouth, severing the spell with that one, swift movement.

Ymir nodded then. Understanding. Accepting.

"I see," she said, and she hated the way her own voice sounded. So unlike her. So wounded and disappointed.

_So fucking weak._

And Christa. Christa wanted to cry but—whether from the shock of it all or just sheer exhaustion—she simply couldn't. Her eyes were dry and cold, her chest tightening with a familiar pang of failure and loss but she couldn't muster the emotion to express herself at all.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, wishing somehow she could find a way to say more.

She_ had _to say more. She had to reach out, to grab Ymir by her arm and tell her that she doesn't mean to reject her. She's not saying **no**! She's just—she just can't promise _yes_. Not yet. She can't say yes because she has to be sure. Super, extra, _severely_ sure that she can promise Ymir truth before she ever does it. Because she doesn't want to hurt her. She wants to do what's best.

What if they run away and her father only goes after her? Finds her? Sends her to her mom? Sends them both to jail?

What if they kill Ymir? Or Ymir gets herself killed? What if?

_What if?_

And then she was just about to say it, to belabor upon her own reasons when suddenly—

"No," Ymir scoffed, shaking her head. "No. I am. I'm sorry I ever even asked. I should've known better."

Christa opened her mouth to speak, but the brunette was already turning on her heels.

The thick, bloated clouds outside had already begun to emit their long, low moans that grew into loud rumbles. Thunder shook the heavens outside, sounding more like the faint whispers of brontide from within Ymir's apartment. The cries of their music grew heavier and heavier with fervor as the storm finally began to arrive.

A symphony. Christa used to love their song, because rain usually brought about the greatest occurrences of her life: Long days of Mom staying away because of the weather, cozy nights with Frieda, bumping miraculously into a tall, captivating girl as she took shelter under a shabby building...

But now, its music merely haunted her, and Christa couldn't move. She stood quietly in the center of the kitchen, her eyes dead as they stared at some insignificant point in space.

She could hear Ymir scramble into her leather jacket outside in the living room, the same one she'd offered Christa on the day they first met. Then came the sound of her footsteps after she'd already put on her shoes. Christa couldn't see her, but she could hear every bit of her movements.

She heard the daunting sound of Ymir's keys rattling on the door knob. A click. Unlocking once. Twice. Both locks were unlocked, and then Christa was alone. The door slammed loudly shut behind her, not a single thing left behind by the girl.

_Splat._

And that was when she heard it. The first arrival of the rain.

Slowly, Christa turned her head, her eyes landing on the window where she viewed the world outside. After that rain drop, came another, then another, then another one, until soon there were so many she could no longer count. It was here, the storm she had so happily looked forward to. But now Christa was alone. Christa was shaken and utterly alone.

Her eyes fell dryly upon the spot where the coffee pot had shattered.

And only then did she allow herself to cry.

* * *

Frantically, Ymir sprang down the flight of stairs as she dialed the set of numbers on the keypad of her phone.

Her hands were shaking. She had to punch the numbers in once. Call. Cancel. Punch them in a second time because she'd dialed the damn shit wrong.

When she held the device to her ear, it shook against her as she ran, nearly slipped, made her way out of the heavy front door of the building and out into the pelting shower of the rain.

It took a third call before the other end of the line answered.

"Hello?"

"Reiner?" Ymir gasped, her voice catching before she cleared her throat to fend off the weight of emotions from her tone.

"Ymir?"

"Are you busy?"

"What are—"

"I'm coming to see you."

"Ymir—"

"It's an emergency, Reiner. I'll meet you at the restaurant."

"What?" Reiner's voice was gruff, tired. "What restaurant?"

"The one—" Ymir nearly slipped on a puddle. "In the one where your boyfriend works, Reiner. The building that used to be our fucking headquarters!"

She didn't even let him respond. The next second, Ymir slammed the phone shut and stuffed it deep within her pocket.

Her hands were still trembling, but she jammed them into the pockets of her jacket as well, her hand clasping her phone tightly to shield it from the water that was already seeping through her clothes.

The rain fell mercilessly upon her as she walked, walked, and walked; finding brief pockets of shelter every time she ran under a building but never once stopping to rest. Thunder rumbled in the distance, the wind picked up along with the shower that shot down at the world diagonally, sending her hair and jacket rustling as she shivered and cursed the blasted rain.

The storm was coming.

And Ymir now knew what she had to do.

* * *

**A/N:** Oh, shit. Just trust me with this one, please.

**PS:** I find myself falling in love with Ymir and Historia more and more. Did you know I didn't even ship them when I started writing this? Yep. Fun fact.

**PPS:** Oh, and _**HAPPY NEW YEAR MY LOVES!**_


	6. Part VI

_"When you're beaten down to nothing, you've got nothing __left __to lose."_

* * *

**.: Rain :.**

.: Part VI :.

* * *

Ymir is not a good person.

This, she has known her entire life.

So it was to come as no surprise when she glanced down to find blood staining both her hands; the warm, crimson liquid lubricating her grip on the rusty, seven-inch knife that gradually slipped from within her grasp.

Her breathing escaped her in labored, ragged breaths. Her chest heaved and bloated, her heart beating so fast it felt as if it was about to explode out of her own chest.

There were footsteps. Faint. Approaching hastily from behind her.

The stench of blood and sweat permeated the air, making her head feel light and queasy. Her chest tightened involuntarily when she looked up to find a man's body slumped face-first onto the ground. A deep red patch stained the cloth of his white shirt by the small of his back—many red patches, actually.

Her doing.

She'd done it. She'd actually done the job.

A sixteen-year-old Ymir turned her head to find the black silhouette of a man standing right behind her. He placed his hand on her shoulder, the meaty boulder of his palm an added weight she couldn't lade and it caused her frame to dip down slightly, knees threatening to buckle and give out under her own weight.

But the girl stood. Tall. Persistent.

"Well done," the man said, and only then did Ymir allow the knife to fall from her hands, the blade clanking audibly over the dusty ground.

**Death.** She's seen it happen so many times before. The callused shell of her eyes already long accustomed to the sight but never—_never_—had she directly been the cause of it.

Until now.

Ymir didn't even bother responding to her boss. He swiftly made his way from behind her and motioned for the others to take care of the corpse. Carefully, the men lifted the man from the ground, lugging his lifeless body out to be disposed off, a cleaning crew promptly scrambling to clean up after the mess and dispose of all the evidence.

Ymir couldn't move.

She couldn't help... but just stare. Numbly. Coldly. Her eyes distantly perusing the sight before her as if she had as much correlation to it as a lion did with a fly.

The world resumed mercilessly around her, life unforgivably resuming its own course as she stood inconsolably alone amidst the catastrophic wreck of it all.

Never had she cared for a single soul besides her own.

Never had a single soul cared for her, but only for themselves.

So then why, just _why_, was she suddenly feeling ill? Why was her stomach turning on something strangely bitter and sour?

Why was everything, _everything_,suddenly not the same? Was she feeling _guilt_? Regret?

It didn't matter. The girl collected her money, told the man never to reach for her again.

"Don't worry about that," her old boss had told her. "Your job here is done."

And it was. It was as simple as that. Sacrifice was required in need for food, shelter, money. Some lives had to perish in order for others to continue on.

Her life carried along with it a truth. A simple truth:** she was alone**. Ymir was alone in the world.

This, too, she has known her entire life.

So as she hastily made her way out of the decaying building, evacuating the scene of the crime for the last time, Ymir felt the vestiges of her youth tragically dwindle, then finally waste away.

But then she chuckled. Grimly, Ymir chuckled to herself.

_What fucking youth?_

She had none. She had no humanity left in her at all.

Car horns beeped profusely with the vehicles that swooshed past her, their hasty journeys to their destinations reminding Ymir of her rightful place outside of their owners' society. Normal people drove cars. Normal people had homes and families and worked for a living.

Ymir, however, didn't.

She dug her hand into the pocket of her tattered hoodie, her fingers circling around the little bundle of green paper bills and she forced herself to walk, one foot after the other, just one foot at a time.

**Money**. This was enough to keep her alive for a few more days, she estimated. Just a few more days.

The thought of the man suddenly bolted back into her brain with the rapid force of a lightning bolt, splitting her mind in half and shocking her with—it was undeniable—_pain_. For reasons she couldn't possibly fathom, Ymir suddenly felt her chest tighten again, compressing, as if it was being smashed from within the insides of an accordion.

The girl was finding it hard to breathe now.

_Who had he been_, she wondered. Was he a business man? Was he a father? Was he a faithful husband to an adherent wife? What, exactly, was the measure of what Ymir had just stolen from him?

She blinked, stopped right on her tracks, the bundle in her hand nonexistent to her numbing fingers. All she felt—all she remembered—was the knife, the man, his face of white horror, of dread. Of fear.

Of her.

Of fear of _**her**_.

The way the glass of his irises had mirrored her reflection perfectly, captured the cruelty of it all. The injustice. His very carcass a haunting shell of her sins, in her hands the permanent stains of her own bounty's blood.

Suddenly, Ymir felt sick.

Oh, but it was the orders. The fucking orders. They had ordered her to do it.

"_Get rid of him."_

"_If you want out, **you get rid of him.**"_

So... So it wasn't her fault. She_ had_ to do it, right? She just had to!

Vomit.

Quickly, Ymir sprang into the nearest darkened alley, her hands slamming helplessly against the cold cement of the wall as she retched, retched, and retched onto the ground.

Puke sputtered out of her, hot and burning like molten lava.

_Fuck._ There went the last bit of her meal.

She brought the back of her hand to her mouth, surprised at the way it trembled slightly against her lips. She didn't bother questioning what was troubling her. She knew very well what was happening to her that night.

Ymir had gone too far.

But it was wrong. It was _all_ wrong. Ymir wasn't supposed to care. She didn't! She didn't care at all.

But then _why_... Why was her own puke sprayed over the ground? Why was she trembling and shaking, suddenly overcome by cold?

She swallowed, the passage of her throat scraped raw and burning as a consequence of her weakness. She could taste the metallic tang of her own blood in her mouth, but it's not like she really cared by that point.

"I did it," she sighed, holding herself clumsily against the wall, legs trembling as she pressed her forehead to the frigid cement, slowly shutting her eyes and groaning at the way her world spun even from behind the shields of her closed lids.

**Everything in life always carries a price. **

And she knew that. Ymir knew that.

Food, comfort—even money itself. But there was none of that for her. There was no comfort left for Ymir. She just had to deal with that. Just live with it.

Like always.

Eventually, the girl pushed herself off the wall, continued her aimless trotting through the vacant vessel of her own empty,pointless life.

Now wasn't the time for remorse and never had there ever been a time for pity. Now, Ymir had to find a place to stay. Something to eat. Some fresh water to drink and quench her dire thirst.

Soft, smooth. Gritty. She ran her fingertips over the roll of money in her pocket, her nails picking at the elastic band.

_Pop._

The rubber band snapped within her pocket, her nails pulling and tugging at the string before letting it pop back into place with a sound like a muffled slap. A slap against the green paper of her own cash.

Paper. But it was all just that. _Paper_.

_Was that really worth a life?_

The wailing cries of the man echoed painfully within her ears, but Ymir ignored it all, pushed everything into the farthest corners of her rotted brain and kept walking despite a strong urge to bow her head down. She fought against it, held her chin up high instead.

**The man had to die.** It was the only way for her to earn her rightful freedom, to gain her way safely out of that forsaken crew that had claimed her when she was just a kid. Just their little errand girl.

But now her freedom was hers, right? Her life was within her own hands. And that was worth it, wasn't it? That made it all worth it somehow...

Didn't it?

After hours of searching and finding no food, no kindness, nothing, Ymir finally capitulated and collapsed against a brick wall outside a movie theater. The far off shrieks of children laughing and squealing tugging at the strings within her chest, her stomach tightening painfully at the torments of ravenous hunger as she slid her back gradually down the wall.

Finally, Ymir closed her tired eyes. Her hands fell weakly by her sides as she leaned her head against the stiff forlorn pillow of the wall that offered her no comfort, granted her no ease.

"Don't be a baby," Ymir told herself, feeling once again for the twisted bundle within her pocket. "Don't be so weak."

An elderly couple walked past her, eyeing her curiously for a second before quickly turning their heads, at once resuming with the course of their fruitful, long lives. At once turning to ignore her.

Nobody heard her. Nobody ever did. Not a single voice answered back to her plea when the teenage girl suddenly opened her eyes, stared helplessly at the star-dotted night sky and asked:

"Kill me."

Her voice was soft despite her anguish. Just a feathered, gentle hiss.

"Why don't you just kill me now? Be done with me already."

But who was she talking to? Certainly not God. She never believed in such a thing. But yet there she was, talking solemnly to herself—or to whoever—whispering soft orisons of death to anyone who heard her, anyone who wanted to help.

Anyone.

Please. Just, _**anyone**_.

"Kill me."

She grimaced, winced, screwed her eyes shut while her body twisted in pain.

The whole world was black. The whole world—despite the occasional swooshing of cars passing and the noise of childrens' laughter—was completely soundless.

Ymir was empty. Blank. There was nothing left of her at all.

The bundle in her hands became utterly insignificant as—for the first time in her short, inane life—Ymir felt the agonizing chains of regret finally clasp her, throttling the passage of her throat and suffocating her, stealing all her air and sanity as its grasp merely tightened and tightened with greed, got worse and worse and worse.

Soon enough, the pain grew maddening. It all became too much for her to bear.

"_Fuck,_" she groaned, wincing at the wave of hunger that mauled her insides with vehement ardor.

_Let it kill me_, she thought then. _Let the hunger kill me too._

He shouldn't...

**He shouldn't have died.**

No matter what, that man did **not** have to die. But she killed him. She murdered him to grant her way out of a gang. What a waste of life. What a waste of space.

What was the point? What's the point of her own existence?

She doesn't matter. Ymir doesn't matter. She killed a man in order to live freely for just a few more days and for what? He probably had a family. Ymir never had a family. He probably had people waiting for him at home. Nobody ever looked forward to seeing _her_. In fact, people always ran away from her. Always.

She was a plague. A repellent. A natural pariah that was doomed to be alone until the end.

And Ymir knew that. Ymir always knew that.

So then was life really all that worth it? Was this life really that worth it?

The world hated her merely for existing. Her own birth had brought about a mother's complications, a father's despair. That is why they **ha****d** to leave her. That is why they'd all left. Ymir never knew how to keep people close, how to make them stay. They all ran. In the end, they all ran away from her.

Because Ymir was a monster. A monster.

And she tried. Once, she really, _really_ tried to please them all but now look where that had brought her. People loathed her just the same. The Earth still spun the same way, and people still formed the same judgments of her.

_Worthless, spineless scum._

To bring happiness to the world, Ymir should just die. She should just die already. That would make so many people happy. _That_ would bring so much happiness to the world.

Her stomach grumbled once again, but this time not out of hunger, but out of sickness. She nearly fell over, her hand reflexively pressing against her own mouth to hold back another urge to vomit.

She squeezed her eyes shut again, moaning painfully at the aches gripping her chest and gut. She couldn't breathe. She wanted it to end. She just wanted it all to end.

At that moment, Ymir began to shiver; the quivers quaking through her body a clear declaration of her surrender, of her sudden realization:

_I never should've been born._

She couldn't take it any more. She decided. At that moment, Ymir decided.

The best way out of this hell was to put an end to it herself.

Yes. Yes, _that_ was the answer.

She was about to lift herself off of the ground, to give all her money to the family with the laughing children until suddenly–

"Ymir?"

She looked up—still holding her hand to her mouth—and she saw him.

It was a boy. Blonde. Tall as fuck from the angle she was viewing him off the ground and despite the maturity in his baritone voice, he looked no older than her.

"Are you Ymir?" he asked her then.

Slowly, Ymir nodded her head.

"Well," the boy dug his hand into his pocket, fishing out a folded piece of paper before flattening it out and offering it for her to take. "I'm Reiner. I've been looking for you."

"Reiner?" Ymir echoed, suddenly realizing she was talking stupidly into her own hand before removing it.

"That's right." the boy nodded and Ymir carefully took the paper from his hand, eyeing him suspiciously before boring her eyes through the printed words.

She gasped. Golden eyes widened with comprehension.

"If you don't want to die," the boy—no, _Reiner_—said, "you'll have to come with me."

"Why?" she cried, clinging desperately to the piece of paper. "Why are they after me now? I killed the man, didn't I? I fucking—"

"I know," Reiner interrupted, holding up his hand. "They're sending people out to get you anyway. No one makes it out of that gang alive, or_ any_ gang for that matter. But I know how you work. You're smart. Quick. I'd like to offer you a chance to work with me."

"Wha—?" She choked, suddenly feeling like puking again. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes, calmed herself, regaining her train of thought in that way she had patented down so perfectly throughout the years. When she opened her eyes and spoke again, her tone was more acute, much less emotional.

"What are you proposing?" she asked.

"Life," Reiner replied, and Ymir's eyes widened at his choice of word. "I'm offering you life, Ymir. Work with me and I will grant you a home, a job, something new to live for."

Perplexed, the girl opened her mouth, her tired mind attempting to thread words together but not knowing how. So she cleared her throat instead, uttered, "I don't understand. Why are you talking to me instead of just trying to kill me like you're supposed to do? How old are you anyway? Are you even old enough to be an adult?"

"No, Ymir." Reiner shook his head. "I'm sixteen. Just like you."

At this, Ymir slowly dropped her gaze. _How could he be as old as me, and be offering me a place to stay?_

Even more importantly: _How the hell __does__ he know __my__ age__?!_

Suddenly, it all made sense to her.

"You belong to a gang, don't you?" she asked him, her fingers ripping the bounty letter into shreds before letting the pieces fall onto the ground and watching them be blown away by the sibilant Autumn breeze.

"No," Reiner replied nonchalantly. "Not exactly. I'll tell you all about it, but you'll have to pick yourself up off the ground first."

Oh. That's right. She was still sitting there like some goddamned idiot.

After a beat, Ymir sighed. She felt so weak, too weak to stand up right then but she wasn't about to ask the guy for help. Gradually, she worked herself onto her feet, wincing slightly at the pain that shot through her system while Reiner stared, eying her patiently as a small, pained hiss escaped her lips involuntarily.

Regardless, Ymir stood tall. Swaying slightly on her feet, but tall.

"Alright," the boy said then, working himself out of his thick coat before offering it benevolently to Ymir.

She gaped at him, her eyelids closing midway before she droned, "What the fuck do you think you're doing?"

"Take it," he insisted, shaking the coat. "We wouldn't want you catching a cold."

Ymir scoffed. Colds were the least of her worries.

But the girl wasn't stupid, and she was definitely catching up on the chill in the air. She took the coat from his hands and put it on, wondering just for how long she would get to keep it.

It was a stunt. Ymir knew that for sure. She studied Reiner quietly, weighing him on the scale of her own eyes and intuition, calculating that he was showing her kindness in exchange for something else. Something more.

Reiner jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. "Let's walk."

"This way," Ymir bossed instead, pointing towards the opposite direction and into a dark alley, one eerie and lengthy enough to scare just about any sane person away.

But the boy nodded, not even sparing a single second of hesitation. "Alright."

Promptly, the pair began to walk. Reiner commenced his explanation.

"I'm not from here," he began. "I come from a place very far away. It's not necessary for me to share my reasons for being here, but you and I aren't all that different. I work for a group of people who all seek the same thing."

"Which is?"

"Freedom."

Ymir _ha!_'d loudly, the sound bouncing off the walls of the alley and echoing enough to make Reiner jump.

"What the hell kind of reason is that?" she jeered, and the boy eyed her sternly.

"Don't pretend to be superior, Ymir," his tone was serious. "Didn't you just _kill_ a man for that same reason?"

That stung. In an instant, Ymir averted her eyes away defensively, her mouth twisting into a scornful scowl she made sure he didn't catch.

_Asshole._

"I thought so," Reiner quipped, digging his hands into his pockets. He was already picking up on the cold in the air as well when he started speaking again.

"Think wisely now, Ymir. We're just kids. Not to us, no. We've seen too much of the world to be branded _normal_ by any means, but in the eyes of our society, we have no freedom of speech whatsoever. Our world is corrupted. There's not really much that we can do at this age. Not on our own. I was asked to kill you in that bounty, but I should tell you why.

"The man you murdered today," Reiner stopped suddenly on his feet, turning to face her. "Would you care to know his name?"

She came to a halt beside him. Her eyes flinched slightly at his words, dreading, but she blinked a few times before nodding her head_. _Yes. Despite herself, Ymir truly, _honestly_ wished to know the name of the man she'd killed. Perhaps that would help her; alleviate her distress in some sort of odd way.

"Marcel," he declared. "He was a member of our group."

"Marcel?" she echoed, the name tasting thick and dangerous, like tar on her tongue. "I killed a member of your own group? I don't understand. Wouldn't that make me your enemy?"

"It would," the boy sighed, continuing to walk. "But you did that under enemy orders. You see, the bounty that sent me after you, they came from _your_ people. Your own group is seeking to destroy you now."

"Those fuckers," Ymir seethed, suddenly faint with dizziness as she tried to catch up to him.

"There's no way of ever leaving a gang, Ymir. That is, of course, unless you join me."

"Why?" she asked impatiently, her growing irritation present her tone. "Why do you want me? What makes you think I want to join another group? I'm done with murderers and bandits. I don't want to live for anyone but myself now, okay?"

"That's perfectly fine," Reiner retorted, shrugging a shoulder mildly. "But I will tell you this one more time:_ think_, Ymir. You don't have anything to lose. I'm not asking you to kill or to do anything heinous, but just _help us_. If you become one of us, we can offer you our strength in return."

"Listen," she sighed exasperatedly. "I'm not working for anyone anymore, okay? I belong to no one. Like I said: I'm done."

"Alright. If that is what you want, then go ahead and decline. Go back to your petty existence. But just let me ask you one last thing." Reiner turned to her, eyes grim and challenging.

She glared at him the entire time he spoke.

"What exactly are you living for now? You have a gang after you. Think about that. They're trying to kill you after they used you, and I know very well you have no place else to go."

Ymir's upper lip twitched, but she said nothing.

"Ymir," the boy pressed, persistent. "We will give you a _home_, a shelter. You don't belong to us, you belong to yourself. _That_ is why we want you! You were once a threat, and now you belong to no one. We could use you. You could use us! Isn't that what all this is about in the end? Using one another for our own survival?"

Ymir was quiet after that. She stared silently at the dirty ground below them, thinking, analyzing, gauging the boy's words for a moment as silence settled between them. Their footsteps echoed audibly against the walls of the alley, reminding her then... to look up.

Just look up, Ymir.

She peered up at the sky, her eyes catching every twinkling, unrepentant star. A faint sliver of something suddenly flickered to life within her. A question.

_Is this it?_

Was this the answer she was looking for?

"Alright," Ymir uttered eventually, hugging herself so that the coat fended off the cold better. She entertained the thought of a new life. The kind this strange, unusual boy was talking about.

"What's the deal?" she asked him. "What would I have to do?"

Reiner's eyes grew wide with amusement, an askew smile curving up his lips. He didn't think convincing her would turn out so well, but he wasn't about to waste a single second for her to change her mind.

So he cleared his throat, at once ready to answer her question when the alley finally ended by a sidewalk where they turned to walk beside the street.

"We work mostly in secret," he began. "Unlike your previous group, we all work mostly independently. We handle things the government oversees and get paid good money for it. You're still young, so they'll probably group you up with me. As soon as we get to my city, we will get you a place to stay. You can live there for as long as you'd like while you're one of us. There are rankings in our system, but it's not necessary to escalate past your primal point. The money we earn in assignments is stored safely and evenly distributed between persons, depending on the job."

"In other words, I get to keep what I make?"

"That's right," Reiner nodded. "Just don't get killed, obviously. As long as you're part of us, we will keep your earnings stored inside our own quarters. If you were ever to leave, you would take the money with you. It's all yours, just as long as you understand that you work for us and solely us until then. Some people are just in it to get rich, but the point of our group is to make change happen. Money is just part of the process."

Ymir scoffed. "This almost sounds too good to be true."

"For you it does. There _is_ a downside though. All the money you make working for us can't be spent on whatever you want. You have to get permission from Ace."

Ymir raised a brow. "From _Ace_?"

"That's right." Reiner nodded. "Ace is the one in charge. Nobody really knows who he or she is, but they send out all the orders. Some people just refer to Ace as 'Master'," he scoffed lightly, "but you don't have to do that."

"Ace," Ymir reverberated to herself in a whisper, trying to gauge the name and its existence. "So let me get this straight: you guys have an official headquarters, _and_ an incognito boss?" She chuckled, grinned. "Nice. Not bad for a gang, you know."

"Not a gang," Reiner corrected.

"Oh, but something so much like it."

The boy sighed. "Sure. Whatever you say."

"So anyway," Ymir's smile faded, replaced by a serious frown. "Tell me why we have to get permission from this Ace person to spend our own cash."

"Right. Well, this is just to keep people from going rogue and using their money for inconvenient purposes. Also, you will have to become a part of regular society to fend off any suspicion. This means you'll also have to get a job. We will grant you with an entry level position of whatever you choose. This too is extendable if you were ever to wish on improving it, but the important thing is to deliver _**our**_ work, and to do it all correctly."

"I see." Ymir's hands tucked into the warm pockets of the coat as she stared quietly at her own worn-out shoes, the footsteps quiet and faint over the cracked sidewalk.

"So you guys are like some form of rebel group or something?" she asked him after a moment. "You do jobs for people that are trying to overthrow the government?"

He answered her slowly, squinting his eyes, "Something like that."

"Then what would be my line of work?"

"That, we can discuss when we get there." Reiner shot her a sideways glance. "Plus, if you join us, Marcel wouldn't have died in vain. His death meant we'd earn a good recruit. I can tell you feel guilty about his death."

Ymir opened her mouth but no words came out immediately, so she shot him a scathing glare instead, then snarled defensively, "What the fuck makes you think that?"

"If you hadn't felt any form of regret," the boy noted simply, "you wouldn't have bothered talking to me in the first place. You would've just tried to kill me like you're supposed to do too. Besides, I heard what you said in the alley about wanting to die."

He what?

Ymir lowered her gaze at the shame of the declaration.

"But don't worry," Reiner shrugged, noticing her expression. "I won't judge. It's not an easy life we're living."

"You know," she gave the boy a tiny smirk, barely letting him finish his sentence before talking over him. "You talk pretty clumsily for someone in an 'organized rebel group'."

Reiner smiled, unveiling a row of perfect, pearly teeth. "And you're just as I expected. And well, what can I say? Speech has never been my forte."

After that, both teens became silent for a while. They walked soundlessly on the cracked cement of the sidewalk as drunken couples shuffled past them, blubbering loud, pointless banters, ignorant of either of the teens' existence.

For a second, Ymir felt for the roll of bills within her pocket again, clutching it within her hand, then squeezing it. Just one more time.

Just for the last time.

Then, the girl looked up at the sky again, her neck craning back entirely so that she could marvel at splendor of it all. The stars. The clouds. The moon.

_This __is__ it_, Ymir thought to herself. This was the answer she was looking for.

_When you're beaten down to nothing, you've got nothing __left __to lose. _That's what an old man had told her once at a homeless shelter. And tonight, it made more sense to her than it ever had before.

It was a blessing, she figured, just to be alive. If only at that moment...

Or maybe it was just luck. Yeah, it was probably just luck.

She glanced at the boy walking by her side. His shoulders were raised and shivering because of the cold, eyes staring aimlessly at the ground, hands stuffed deep within his pockets, seeking desperately for warmth. He looked so young, almost pitiful, a dire presentation of what it was like to lade too many burdens at such a young age. At too early an age.

In that, he was just like her. They were both just two young, lonely teenagers wanting more than anything to be saved from the world.

But we all wish for the same thing, don't we? We all just want to be saved in the end.

Ymir realized then, that perhaps something as grotesque as death wasn't really what she wanted. Death was too eternal, too permanent. Too... irreversible.

After that night, she never wished for her own death again. Being reborn, starting anew—_t__hat _sounded a lot more enticing. _That_ could be her own personal revenge on the world. She never prayed for angels because she'd never believed in such a thing, but from then on, Ymir swore to do anything possible to ensure her own survival. Despite the needs and wants of others, Ymir lived and thrived solely for herself.

Just herself. Alone.

That was when she finally decided: the best way to live was to show the world her fate wasn't sealed the moment she was born. There was a new hope now. A new light. Ymir was her own savior. Ymir was the hero of her own story.

Her life, solely in her hands.

So finally, Ymir let out a long sigh, relieving herself of the thick woolen coat and offering it back to its rightful owner. Reiner stared at her suddenly, confusion written all over his face.

She nodded at him, the remnant taste of her own blood no longer present on her tongue and she gave the boy a tiny smirk, which eventually grew into a smile.

"Alright. Enough, small talk, Blondie," she said, and Reiner's eyes grew with excitement at the words that followed, at the simple words he wanted more than anything to hear:

"I'm going with you."

* * *

Three years have passed since then. Three years of following orders, distributing jobs, finishing off whatever assignments "Ace" deemed fit for her.

Ymir had always scoffed at that, at the way the others in the group praised her for her loyalty and her strength, the way they basked in her skill and thanked her for the money she gradually earned with little effort. Oblivious, they all were. Oblivious to her true plans and intentions. She'd gradually been stealing the money she earned from her accounts without permission, spending it on whatever mild interests she mustered and living in its glory without a single regret.

But then she'd stopped.

Ymir had stopped participating in all of the other jobs. It all started once they allowed her to go solo, to follow her own choices and take up whatever assignments she wanted because they'd been stupid enough to trust her. And it was great. It was all great back then.

Until the time came when Ymir started questioning, asking, wondering that same, underlying pest of a question:

**What's the point?**

After a while, the safety of the city began to bore her. She still worked in that shitty temporary manual labor job that she'd been working rather permanently in since she'd first arrived in the city.

Once Ace had passed, and the role of "Master" was to go onto another, they'd even considered _her_ for the role but (whatever the fuck being _Master_ meant) Ymir was so direly uninterested in the "well being of mankind" that she decided to pass on the offer. Too much stress. Too much work. And for what? To contribute towards the betterment of a society she didn't even care about? A society that didn't care about her?

Fuck that. Ymir wasn't a leader—at least that's not how she ever saw herself. The role had gone on to someone better, someone more capable in the end.

Then, as soon as the police had started getting involved with the group, Ymir had stopped doing so too. They had changed their headquarters after that, going from a large office building to a crummy rural spot Ymir hadn't even bothered finding out about yet.

She didn't think, back when she'd first arrived to the city, that her life would be repeating the same pattern it had done once before. Ymir would perform a heinous deed for the freedom of another, this time not herself. This time it for a "comrade".

And then **that** was the last straw.

After that, she'd stopped working for them entirely. She'd stopped following assignments and instead followed with the routine of her other job, thinking maybe some day she would find the muse to start living again, searching after her own treasure, living up to society's expectations of her by committing some more crimes and living aimlessly for her own pleasures.

And it was only meant to last a few days, this hiatus. It was never meant to last this long...

Because then Christa came.

And by God, she changed everything.

It's funny how life seems to flow to its own accord sometimes, just like the rivers and the rain and the sun do, because Ymir never would've thought that she'd be doing what she was about to do today. But yet there she was.

There she was.

She stood under the shabby roof of a random building, at last taking refuge from the heavy rain that hailed over the world around her. Ymir tried to catch her breath, realizing she was just a few more blocks away from her destination.

The sound of a thunderclap boomed through the chilly air, the rumbles and grumbles of bloated clouds crying angrily through the heavens making Ymir wonder how she could've been stupid enough to leave her apartment without her car, or at least a damn umbrella.

Fucking idiot.

She reached into her pocket, remembering she'd once stored a hair tie in there and thinking she could at least occupy herself for a moment by pulling back the wet stands of hair that stuck to her face. She grabbed the little band, looped her floppy hair through it a few times and let out a long, heavy sigh that turned out rather breathless. Her heart still beat rapidly from all the running and her boots and pant legs were dotted with little sputters of dirt and water from leaping maniacally over puddles.

A drop of rain fell from a tendril of her hair, sliding thickly down her back and causing her to shiver.

It was warm. Sweat, actually. Gross.

Ymir waited a few more moments until her jaw began to clatter. It was getting very cold now, and she could feel it. God, it was fucking cold. Too cold. She wondered how Christa must be doing back at...

_Christa_.

Ymir squeezed her eyes shut, brows furrowing with concentration as she fought hard to ward off the image of that damned angelic face, tried to scrub off her mind the haunting sounds of her brittle voice when she had made her cry.

Don't think of her, Ymir. Don't think of her. Don't think of her. _Don't don't don't don't don't._

Her own words suddenly appeared, materialized, formed shamefully before her. Mocking her:

"_Stay. Stay with me."_

Ymir clenched her jaw, breathing heavily through her nose and digging her hands into both her pockets. Christa's little voice echoed after that:

"_I'm sorry."_

"_Ymir."_

"_**I'm sorry**."_

She sighed, failing miserably at trying not to think of her as her mind drowned in the memory of those bright, blue eyes and those–

Cigarettes.

She felt a thin envelope withholding a single tube, and her eyes peeled open at the discovery. Her mouth watered. Fuck, she could use one of those right now.

Ymir felt around her body for a lighter, miraculously finding one tucked within the back pocket of her jeans. How the fuck did that even get in there? She scoffed incredulously as she pulled it out and held it to her face. She must've grabbed it on her way out impulsively. A tiny smirk crept up her lips then. Old habits die hard.

Promptly, she placed the tube between her lips, smiling at the way her mouth curved around it so perfectly, remembering the shape and presence of her old friend. She rolled the little wheel of the lighter a few times before watching a flame spark up finally, flickering for a brief second before standing up in perfect stance.

She stared. Gilded irises marveling at the flame as its little light cast a faint halo of deep orange onto her face. Ymir brought it closer then, hesitated, but recovered quickly and held the flame to the end of her cigarette. She let it toast the tip, protecting the tiny blaze from the wind and humidity with a cradled hand.

Then she closed her eyes, sucking in a long, deep breath.

The smoke was thick, intoxicating. Welcome. Like an old, lost friend returning home and it made her feel so suddenly... _at peace_.

Then she gagged.

Ymir sputtered out hazy clouds of smoke as she coughed and wheezed pathetically. Fucking shit. She spat out saliva a few times on the floor, realizing that was the first time she'd ever choked on one of her own cigarettes. She held the little tube up to her face, eyeing it painfully as she felt her old friend betray her, settling onto her tongue and leaving such a putrid, moldy after-taste that had her dry heaving again.

Disgusting.

She sneered, dropping the cigarette and crushing it under the heel of her boot. She couldn't even stomach the smell of smoke that enclosed her air space, so she chose to escape and keep jogging to her destination instead.

She ran past her old work building, the one she'd met Christa at. She could even see the spot where they'd both met from where she ran.

She eyed the tin roof she'd once stood under, and could practically hear the loud _pitter-patter _sounds of the rain pelting on it even from far away. The wall looked dirtier and smaller than she'd remembered, not at all like the place where she'd turned her head to find a girl's heavenly eyes staring at back at her, the deep blue sky of her irises tinged with all the purity of the world...

Ymir shook her head, shooting away the thought of the girl before it could consume her.

She had a plan now. Ymir had a plan.

She followed the familiar path towards the place that used to be the base of her purpose (her old headquarters) but that was now taken over by a tiny, sappy restaurant where Bertholdt worked.

It was funny, that restaurant. Ymir wondered how such a happy place could reside within an area that used to be the source of wicked doing. But oh well, she guessed it was a metaphor for rebirth or some shit.

Finally, she arrived at the building, trotting up the sharp-edged cement steps that lead to the front door. She clasped the door handle, pulled, the loud slamming of the door falling shut behind her causing every head to turn and face her as she stood over the welcome mat.

Every set of eyes landed expectantly on her.

Ymir stared back at all of them in return.

It must've been funny to see a girl suddenly arrive in her state: clothes dripping, hair all wet, eyes searching frantically for a familiar head of blonde in her surroundings.

"Ymir?" Bertholdt was the one to approach her. He gave her a worried look, then pointed out the obvious, "You're all wet."

Ymir's eyes shrunk. "Well, no shit I'm wet, doofus. Where's your boyfriend?"

His eyes flashed wide for an instant. "R-Reiner?"

She growled, impatient. "Yes!"

The heads turned again to look at her, many pairs of eyebrows knitting together in displeasure at her tone. Ymir felt a heavy prick of annoyance at their stupid, gawking stares. Why the fuck were there so many people eating out in the middle of a fucking storm anyway?

"Here." Bertholdt beckoned for her to follow him into the kitchen, turning swiftly on his heels, "Follow me."

She followed, walking behind him and past the bustling chaos of a busy kitchen, through to a back door that led to a spacious empty room.

The room laid bare with no furnishings, save for a large couch and a few fold-up chairs under a bare lamp light that hung from the ceiling. Bertholdt flicked the light switch on, a naked bulb flickering with a faint buzzing noise a few times before casting a pale pool of white onto the room.

Ymir knew this place well, even in its sad, pitiful state.

This was it. This was where the group used to meet before everything changed.

Bertholdt reached into his pocket to pull out his phone. "Just give me a second, okay? I'll go call him right now."

With that, the tall boy left her, and Ymir was left to stand alone inside the room. Her footsteps made faint squishing noises and drops of water spatted onto the ground, dripping off her hair and clothes. She walked slowly, her golden gaze capturing the mournful display of her surroundings.

She could hear the echoes of thunder grumbling distressingly outside, the rain washing down in waves of blurry gray on the window panes; a blanket to shield her view of the world outside. It was cold in there. She couldn't help it when her shoulders shuddered suddenly.

Bertholdt was talking just outside the door. She couldn't pick up every word he was saying, but she could tell he was talking with Reiner by the milder tone in his already-mild voice.

She took a deep breath then, stuffed her hands into her tight jean pockets. Ymir hated being in this place, even if it held no purpose for her anymore.

After a while, Bertholdt finally walked back into the room, the phone beeping as he pressed down on the 'end' button. He looked up at her, then offered one of his shy, painted smiles.

"He'll be here in a minute," he said. "I just told him to get something on the way, but he shouldn't be long."

Ymir nodded, turning her back to him and planting her gaze on the blurred specter of the world outside. She felt Bertholdt's presence linger for a moment longer, perhaps with the desire to say more. But the boy never spoke and, eventually, Ymir heard the door open behind her, then his quiet footsteps as he walked out and closed it in his part.

Her mind landed briefly onto him. Bertholdt. He owed her big time, that guy. His constant kindness and patience was enough to make her slightly reconsider, but she knew all that wasn't necessarily genuine. He just liked her because she'd saved him once. He just liked her because Ymir had protected him and his little boyfriend.

Fools. Fools, all of them. People need to understand that kindness does not equal kinship.

And sacrifice doesn't always equal gain.

But Ymir closed her eyes then, pursing her lips into a tight line. It wasn't until she heard herself whispering that she realized what she was doing.

She was praying.

"_Give me strength. Give me the strength. Give me the strength to protect her."_

But who was she talking to? Certainly not God. She never believed in such a thing. But yet there she was...

For the first time in her life, Ymir was praying.

* * *

"What the fuck is wrong with you?"

Ymir turned quickly to face the intruding voice, her golden eyes boring deeply into the man that stood breathlessly before her, huffing and puffing with his hands over his knees.

"Hello, Reiner," she quirked with a small cock of her brow. "Long time no talk."

"I know," he said peevishly, holding out a plastic bag for her to take. His tone was tough, pissy. She knew bargaining with him wouldn't be easy today.

"Take this," he commanded, and Ymir took the bag from his hands, eyeing the way he sighed exasperatedly before running both hands through his short, blonde hair.

"Jesus, Ymir." He shook his head, "What are you _thinking _running around in this storm? Bertholdt even told me to get you some dry clothes. You're always asking to get sick."

She noticed his eyes were red. Blood-shot. Poor boy must not be getting enough sleep lately.

"Never mind that," she dismissed, setting the bag down on the dusty couch. "I'm here to speak to you about something very important."

"That's funny." He took off his rain coat and set it over the back of one of the fold-up chairs, "Because so am I."

"I know, I know," she squeezed her eyes shut impatiently, "but just let me go first, okay? I promise to explain myself after everything, but I need you to hear me out right now."

Reiner pressed his lips into a tight line. Ymir was surprised. He didn't blow up immediately like she predicted that he would. Instead, he stuffed his hands into his pockets before knitting his brows together, seeming concerned.

"Shouldn't you at least change your clothes first? You're all wet."

Jesus. Bertholdt and him must share the same pint-sized brain.

Ymir shook her head. "No. There's no time. Listen to me. I have a huge favor to ask you, but I need you to listen to me and I need you to listen close."

Ymir's voice was tight, and Reiner held back all of his objections, nodding slowly for her to begin.

"The man at the party last night," she sighed, "Do you know who he is?"

Reiner narrowed his eyes at her. "You mean the one you almost beat up?"

"Yes," she gritted through her teeth, holding back a glower. "That one."

Reiner was silent for a moment, his eyes drilling holes into her face as he gaped at her without a word. Finally, he heaved a long sigh, settling down onto the seat before her.

"Yeah, I know who he is."

Ymir held her breath. "Okay," she said. "I need to reach him, Reiner. I need to reach that man."

"Why?" he questioned annoyingly and Ymir nearly rolled her eyes to the back of her head.

"It's none of your business," she hissed, and at that, the boy let out a harsh laugh.

"Ymir, I can't just give you a client's information when you want," he said almost mockingly, "You know that."

"Yes but"—_w__ait, a client?_—"I– I need to reach him, Reiner. I _have_ to. This is an emergency – A very special case. Those are allowed, aren't they?" Her voice was growing tighter with irritation (and desperation) as she rolled her eyes again. "How many times didn't I share contact information with you against the rules just so you could get closer to your own personal goals? Huh?"

Reiner's eyes winced slightly at that, but he recovered quickly, clearing his throat dryly before retorting, "Ymir, you've been missing for weeks. You haven't shown up since your 'break' and also," –his voice suddenly got heated, picking up on a previous, underlying anger– "I heard you got fired from your _job_? What the hell is up with that? And we found money missing from your account. You've been stealing money, haven't you? You've been acting really irres–"

"Oh, come on," she seethed exasperatedly.

"No, Ymir. There are _consequences_. You know that! Serious consequences!"

She nearly shouted at him. "Reiner, _**I don't have time!**_I know I shouldn't ask you for anything after leaving you all hanging dry like that but I just – I don't know where else to go right now. Plus," she held up her index finger, pointing it threateningly at him. "You **know** you owe me."

Reiner was silent then, his eyes set downcast as she continued, "I helped you, didn't I? I helped you wipe out that one gang and even freed Bertholdt for you! That was me. **All **me. I've got extra blood in my hands because of the two of you, and you promised recompense."

Reiner finally met her gaze. She swallowed, recovering from her slight desperate banter as a drop of water fell down the side of her face. Ymir glared at him quietly, her blazing eyes burning holes through his face and screaming out loud all the vulnerability and desperation she would never allow him to hear from her own words.

He wasn't saying anything, so Ymir sighed.

"Well, this is it," she said. "This is it, Reiner. I know what I want to do now."

The boy eyed her quietly, fidgeting on his seat. "About?"

"About the group," she replied. "About my money. And my life. I know what I'm doing now, but I–" she stuttered, swallowing bitterly at the words that followed before gritting them painfully through her teeth, "I need your help."

Reiner clenched his jaw before sighing. "Ymir..."

"Don't." She stood close now, bending down before him so that their faces were only inches apart. In her voice flared the fiery scorches of hell, in her eyes the cold and stillness of death. "Don't you dare bullshit me, Reiner. Don't you dare. You know this: I have a right," she finished in a fervent whisper, "_**I have the right**__._"

He blinked at her slowly, not a bit intimidated by her stunt. "You do," he agreed blandly with a mild shrug. "I certainly can't deny you that."

"Then you have to help me," she said straightening up. "Help me with this one last thing, and I promise you you'll be rid of me forever. Do this, and you will owe me nothing, Reiner. You and Bertholdt – the entire group. You won't have to worry about me. You won't have to deal with my shit anymore."

Reiner crossed his arms over his chest as Ymir watched him, searching his features for any sign of what could've been going on inside that stubborn, thick head of his.

"Ymir," he drew out a long breath, "I don't know if you're thinking straight right now. Do you realize what you're saying? That you're going to leave us? Are you out of your damn mind all of a sudden?" he shook his head, "I can't help you. I'm sorry. Talk to me when you feel better, okay?"

Ymir clenched her jaw so tightly it hurt, her hands already balling into fists as she uttered:

"Three years ago."

Reiner looked up at her.

"Three years ago, I met a man. He wasn't very bright – God knows this kid would get me into all sorts of trouble, but he was **honest**. No matter what, he always delivered the task at hand with **truth**. And this man had a vision once. A _real _vision."

Reiner's eyes narrowed at her, but Ymir didn't flinch at all, her words pouring out of her like rain poured out of the clouds outside.

"He was my age too, but so much better than I was. And he helped me once. In return, I helped him. I helped this man not because I trusted him, but because I understood him. That was the closest thing to friendship I ever had. I owed him, so I made damn sure I tried my best to make it up to him, even if all he was was a fucking dick to me the entire time."

Reiner scoffed.

"However," Ymir's tone grew more serious. "This man... He's changed now. I don't know what's happened to him, but he's not that honest boy I once knew. He's clouded and dazed, too confused and distorted inside his own mind lately. I think it all happened... when he realized there was something more he cared about. Something more than his own visions or himself."

Reiner's features settled into a mild glare. He stared at her through the thick fringe of his pale lashes.

"Well," she whispered now. "The same has happened to me."

"What are you saying, Ymir?"

"I'm saying," she spoke slowly, "that I've found a new purpose too. A great one. A better one, Reiner."

Reiner blinked at her a few times.

Staring at her now, he couldn't help but recalling their long, three years beside one another. How they'd formed a strong camaraderie, despite no mutual feelings of trust or love or friendship whatsoever.

But he respected her. If anything was true, was that Reiner respected Ymir, and that—although he didn't really know her well—he owed his life to her as well.

He sighed then, his eyes falling onto the ground, carried down by the weight of her words.

"It's that girl, isn't it?" he asked her quietly, and Ymir didn't bother to hide the flash of vulnerability in her eyes. "You want to protect her. That's what this is all about."

"Yes," she admitted shamelessly, regaining her usual cold mask. "I do. No matter the cost."

Reiner said nothing, his expression still hard and steely and unreadable. Ymir couldn't read him. She could hardly read people the way she could do so effortlessly before anymore.

And she was growing desperate now.

"Reiner," she hissed. "You don't understand. This girl... she's everything. _**Everything**_, Reiner. I need you to help me. Just hear me out! I have a plan, but I need your help. I have to make sure I do what's right this time. I_ have_ to do what's right."

Reiner's eyes stared at nothing. He blinked, then voiced, "Man. I sure do know what _that's_ like."

"Then you will hear me out," Ymir commanded, not a sliver of question in her tone. "You will listen to what I have to say and you will help me."

"Hey," Reiner scoffed lightly. "Don't forget your place now, Ymir. _I'm_ the one who's Master here."

Ymir rolled her eyes. "Get over yourself, Blondie. You've only been Ace for a few weeks. I haven't been gone that long."

"Yeah," he laughed, "and I would've never made it if it weren't for you – since we're being blatantly honest here."

"Don't be stupid now, Reiner," she said. "You've always been so sappy. And then you wonder why I think you're gay."

Reiner chuckled lightly at her comment and waved a hand over his face as if he were swatting off a fly, probably (Ymir decided) a physical attempt at fending off the truth of her words.

But what Ymir didn't know, is that he was actually trying to come to terms with the fact that, if he helped her, he would have to let her go. He would have to say goodbye to someone that, at least on _his _end, was considered to be... a friend.

Maybe Reiner was a fool – Ymir had always called him that, anyway. And she was right. The damn girl was always right.

With a sigh, Reiner finally leaned forward, propping his forearms on his knees and giving Ymir a weary stare, one she was sure he'd given her over a thousand times since the day they'd first met.

"Alright," he said finally. "What's this favor that you're asking for?"

* * *

Ymir stood once again alone inside the vacant room of the restaurant. She held Reiner's phone shakily in her hands, realizing suddenly how weak she felt. She still hadn't eaten anything since the day before, and 2 p.m. was already fast approaching.

It took her a while to figure out how to use the damn device, what with the touch screen shit and whatnot. Her own phone had been broken, drowned out by the water that seeped into her pockets when she'd ran under the rain.

The stupid cheap shit.

It didn't matter though, because she wouldn't be needing it anymore. She knew exactly what she wanted now. She knew exactly what to do.

Thunder clapped loudly outside, a flashing burst of white exploding in the room and causing her to freeze, panic. What if the call didn't go through? What if the storm caused the phone signal to falter?

Still, she punched in the numbers carefully, reading them off the business card Reiner had given her. She chose to call the personal telephone number on the card instead, deciding that it would be better to just call the person directly rather than calling through their work.

Ymir realized –thanks to the way her heart somersaulted within her chest when she brought the phone to her ear– how nervous she was actually feeling then.

She swallowed, eyes landing briefly on the bag of folded clean clothes that still laid on the couch beside her, untouched.

The deep, beeping tones of the call going through lingered for what felt like hours, and Ymir paced around aimlessly, worriedly, chewing on her thumbnail until finally...

"Hello?"

"Uh–" She swallowed, not knowing what to say. Quickly, she brought the card to her face, reading the name on the card before saying aloud, "Yes, can I speak to Rod Reiss?"

The silence that followed felt like it would last forever. Ymir closed her eyes, breathing heavily through her nose. The picture of Christa's gentle face prowled back into her brain unforgivably, haunting her, seizing what little confidence she had left.

Ymir wasn't a good person.

She'd known that her entire life.

But she had to try. She just had to try.

With the answering of a voice on the other end of the line, Ymir would perform the most selfless deed of her life. An act, she decided, that would patent down the cure for her own plague, the light for her own salvation.

"Yes," the voice finally said on the other end.

Ymir went stiff with the words that followed.

"This is him speaking."

* * *

**A/N: **The theme of this chapter is salvation, and I think Ymir praying is my favorite part. I didn't write it with any religious intentions, but you are free to perceive it whichever way you see fit. Excuse the amount of angst in this chapter, but we finally got to look a little into Ymir's crazy past. And I hope you enjoy my crazy writing. There will be more soon (hopefully).

Thank you for reading/reviewing once again. You're all amazing.

**PS:** Christa wasn't in here at all. I miss her.


	7. Part VII

_"And Ymir would give everything she had, everything she owned, every little, minimal part of her up, just to protect her. Just to keep her safe. Because Christa was her salvation. Because Christa was her light."_

* * *

**.: Rain :.**

.: Part VII :.

* * *

What kind of fucking name is _Rod Reiss_?

She guessed it's the kind of name a man who's willing to name his daughter "Historia" would probably have, undoubtedly. But then again, it's not like "Ymir" was really any better.

Then she heard a laugh. Christa's. She swore she'd just heard her giggle at her thoughts.

Her head jerked upwards at the phantom sound, gold eyes scurrying with excitement as they searched about the room, looking for her.

But, of course, Christa wasn't there. Still, Ymir felt her heart sink like an anchor all the same when what she caught in the mirror was her own reflection staring back, and not the smaller girl's incandescent smile. Not her beaming, cobalt eyes crinkling as she grinned in delight.

Damn. Ymir was seriously starting to lose it now.

She chewed on her slightly chapped lip, mild shame welling up inside of her. It's as if she's gone insane, practically seeing and hearing Christa everywhere.

Ymir sniggered. Maybe she really _was_ insane.

Her eyes glanced at the digital time clock on the bedside table, _2:35 __pm _blinking back at her though the acute grayness of the day. The world was pale and blurry outside, a constant soundtrack of the sky's distress played as the heavens jarred with moans and groans, relentless grumbles save for a few occasional thunderclaps to disrupt the cacophonous routine. Palm trees bended down almost dangerously in the wind, tree trunks threatening to snap in half, leaves ruffling violently like flags during a hurricane.

Ymir took a deep breath, easing herself into a dry, long-sleeved sweater Reiner got for her. It was warm. The thick cotton shrouded her torso with heat, nuzzling her icy skin with mild comfort.

Then she did something she rarely ever allowed herself to do: Ymir stared at her own crude reflection in the mirror.

Reiner had given her a hair comb (bless his face) so her dampened hair was brushed and neat instead of the wild, disheveled mess it usually was. Plus, it smelled good. She'd taken another shower, and actually washed her hair this time. It took a moment before she blinked, her lids heavy upon her eyes as a consequence of poor and troubled sleep.

And then, Ymir suddenly realized:

She almost couldn't even recognize herself.

She'd always seen the same face staring back. That same tan, freckled, scarred replica of **her** gazing back through marbled orbs of gold, piercing and intimidating. But now, nothing was the same. Even her scars –something so tattooed and permanent– looked differently to her.

She brought her fingers to her own cheek, feeling the way her skin felt alarmingly cold and frigid. Is this what Christa had felt when she'd touched her? When she'd caressed her face, nearly kissed her lips, was _this_ what she found?

"Ymir," she heard a gentle voice call from outside the door, followed by faint _tump, tump_ of someone knocking on it shyly. Just by the way the person's knuckles had tapped the wood, so delicately, Ymir could guess who was standing outside.

"Yes, Bertholdt?"

"Can..." his voice was small, "Can I come in?"

She sighed, allowing her eyes to land on the world outside the curtained window. The view of the city always seemed so grand from other people's apartments, especially Reiner's. Even as rain veiled the world, lights still shone hazy and pleasantly through all of it. Like hope.

"Go ahead," she answered monotonously, picking off invisible lint from her new jeans (bless Reiner for memorizing her pant size once long ago too).

She heard the door knob turn, saw Bertholdt's head peek inside through the reflection in the mirror. "Is everything alright?" he asked her.

"Yeah.." She turned to face him, "How do I look?"

"Great," Bertholdt said with a tiny smile. "Yes, you look great."

She guffawed, offered a bland, "thanks" then let her hands dig into her back pockets, ready to shoot a smart remark at the boy before suddenly hearing the keys to her apartment clink quietly against her nails. Her eyes became distant and unfocused at the feel of them, her brain tingeing with longing at the thought of her home.

"Um," she heard Bertholdt mutter, the sound of his nervous voice ripping her from her trance. "What would you like me to do with your wet clothes?"

"Throw them out," Ymir voiced aloud before even thinking. In response, Bertholdt stood awkwardly by the door, his tall lanky form frozen into place with uncertainty.

She stared at him. Was he stupid? Just throw the damn shit–

Wait. Ymir gasped once she remembered.

"Except the jacket," she sputtered out. "No, don't throw out the jacket. I want to keep that. Just throw out everything else though, okay?"

"Of..." Bertholdt eyed her confusedly, not knowing whether she was being serious or not. But then he sighed, nodded, remembered Ymir wouldn't waste her time lying to him. "Of course."

_Poor boy_, she thought. _I must scare the shit out of him._

It didn't matter, though. She couldn't get rid of that jacket because: _one_, she needed it and_two_, she couldn't get rid of it when it reminded her of Christa. Yes. As pathetic and sad as that sounded, she just couldn't will herself to do it just yet.

Bertholdt still stood by the door, his lingering uncertainty provoking a prick of annoyance from within Ymir.

"Bertholdt," she said impatiently, hands still inside her back pockets, "What is it?"

"Uh..." He straightened up, stammered, eyes rolling nervously around the room. "U-um, I just..."

The tall boy sighed.

Ymir gave him a questioning shrug. "What?"

"I just thought..." –another sigh, shaky.– "I though this would be a good time to... You know... Finally thank you properly."

At this, Ymir raised a brow. "Oh?"

"Yes." He made his way inside the room then, still standing by the door but no longer just peeking his head inside. Although his whole body stood within the room, his fear and uncertainty made him practically transparent to her eyes, like he was there but not really there at the same time. "I've been meaning to say this for a long time, but I just never seemed to find the proper opportunity."

Ymir eyed him quietly, sternly, not a slither of patience present in her face but he continued anyway.

"What you did for me... For Reiner. You didn't have to help us – but you did. You may not know this, but you really saved both our lives, Ymir. So... We both owe a lot to you."

"Please," she scoffed, "I was just doing my job, Bert."

"No," Berhtoldt objected softly, shaking his head. "No, you weren't. Helping me wasn't part of your work. You did it to help Reiner because you knew how much he cared about me. And... you really ended up saving us. Both of us."

Ymir stared at him silently, lips pursing into a tight line before she shrugged. "You were a childhood friend of his," she said. "He really wanted you safe and out of the slums. I just followed his orders in retrieving you, that's all."

Bertholdt eyed her calmly and, for once, Ymir couldn't really decipher what the boy was thinking. (If we were being really honest here, Ymir could hardly decipher shit anymore at all, despite being extremely adept at the skill her entire life).

"You're a good person, Ymir," he uttered suddenly, and his voice was so faint and small it took Ymir a few seconds before she understood what he had just told her.

It hit her like a sack of bricks over the head.

Wait. _What._

"I am not," she sighed, turning her face away from him. "Trust me, I'm not. You know, that's your problem, Bertholdt. You think people are all kind and good-hearted but what you fail to realize is that in the end, all people seek is their own benefit. No one ever does anything without wanting something in return. It's the natural order of things. So don't confuse doing what is necessary with kindness – because it's not."

Bertholdt sighed through his nose, shoulders slumping down slightly as he said, "If you say so, Ymir."

His words hinted surrender, but Ymir knew that he didn't believe her. The damn fool was convinced that what _he_ was saying was right. The truth.

Well. it wasn't.

_Y__ou're a good person, __Ymir__._ What? No she wasn't. **No she wasn't**. The fucker was just fooling himself. She'd only helped them because she knew what it was like to be trapped within the dirty quicksands of gangs, suffocating and sinking deeper and deeper the harder she tried to escape. So, in the end, it was all still selfish of her. She only helped them to alleviate her own sense of self-worth, so it was all still selfish...

Right?

But Ymir found it hard to meet his gaze after that, because she knew her own words hadn't convinced him. _His_ words were genuine. He truly considered her a decent person which –she would never admit this to him– made her feel... happy? Delighted? Flattered?

Who knows. But just something good, _that's_ for sure.

"Do you..." she asked slowly, "Do you really think that?"

"That you're not as cruel as you think you are?" Bertholdt's voice was light, the curvature of a slight smile decorating his lips. "Absolutely, Ymir. With all my heart."

She laughed. "Oh, Bertholdt. You're just a big fucking idiot, you know that?"

"Maybe," he shrugged. "But at least I can admit it."

Ymir scoffed. "Thanks, I guess. You know, no one's ever really told me that before."

No one. Besides Christa.

Ymir cringed. **No**. No thinking about her. _No thinking about the girl at all_.

Not yet.

She glanced up at the clock again, eyes wincing slightly at the time.

Meeting Rod Reiss was only a few minutes away now. Just a few short minutes away.

She swallowed, a faint nervousness fluttering inside her as she planted her eyes back onto the boy.

Despite herself, despite what she was about to do soon, Ymir still fought hard to keep the memory of Christa from eating away at her mind, her body, her fucking soul. Because she knew full and well that it definitely would. It would fucking _consume _her, and Ymir needed to focus. Now, more than ever, Ymir needed to focus.

"Bertholdt," she said finally, allowing her tone to sound mild for once. She'd never been very kind to him, but she figured it wouldn't hurt. Not since she wouldn't be seeing him again after that day anyway.

"When I'm through with today," she voiced gently, "will you promise me you'll do something?"

He blinked, eyebrows raised. "What's that?"

"Ask Reiner out." Her voice was demanding, and she smirked at the way Berhtoldt's features tensed up at her words. "I know I've been picking on you guys since I first met you, but I think you should really try it. I mean,_seriously_ try." She chuckled lightly, "Well, unless you're straight. Then that would just be very uncanny."

Bertholdt nearly choked on his own scoff, running a hand through the back of his head as his cheeks flared cherry-red. "Ah. You... You really think I should?"

"Oh yeah," she nodded. "I mean, what's the worst that can happen, right? He says no? You go right back to living life the way you did before. But if he says yes? Boy, won't you be glad you took that chance while you could."

"Hmm..." Bertholdt's eyes were squinted, staring at the floor as if he couldn't decipher a hidden message, perhaps imagining the scenario of asking Reiner out already in his head.

After a while, he looked at her, giving her one of those shy, painted smiles he was so well known for. "I guess maybe I will."

"No." Ymir shook her head, "You have to _promise_ me you will, Bertholdt. No matter what."

He stared at her then, eyes serious and promising. He said, "Alright, then. I promise you, Ymir. I'll do it."

At this, Ymir nodded, turning her face to view the rain outside again so that Bertholdt couldn't see when her lips twitched and formed a tiny grin.

She smiled. Despite herself, Ymir smiled.

Maybe she would miss him, the fucking fool. Him and Reiner both.

After a short moment, Bertholdt finally left her to be alone, muttering a tiny, "See? And you say you're not a good person" before closing the door behind him.

She rolled her eyes at that, but she was all alone now, and when someone is alone, that is when their brain decides to wander off into the most haunting and dangerous places. Thoughts of worry threaten to resurface, and resurface they eventually always do.

She thought of Christa then, of Rod, of what she'd told Reiner to do just a few hours ago when he'd agreed to grant her favor.

She wondered what Christa was doing back at home too. Was she still sad about the coffee pot? What was that wonderful, little mind up to? Reading a book? Watching a movie? Writing down on her notebooks a brand new discovery or fascination? Something she wanted to acquire for herself?

Or...

Ymir began to push her arms through the sleeves of a black jacket Reiner had gotten her as her mind wandered into an even darker place. Was Christa... _crying instead?_ Were the notebooks still untouched? Forgotten? She was all alone... Christa was all alone with no one there to comfort her so–

"Ymir." Reiner stood at the door now, car keys at hand. "Are you ready?"

She clenched her jaw, catching the sight of the foreign woman that stared back at her through the mirror for the last time before nodding her head and saying, "Yeah, I'm ready. Let's go."

* * *

Rod Reiss worked nearly an hour away from the destination that he was supposed to meet her.

That didn't stop him though. This was a chance to reach his daughter, and that's all that truly mattered to him right now.

The night before had been a total daze, a dream, and the poor man hadn't accomplished a single hour of sleep since he'd last seen her. He'd slipped on his work clothes that morning, muscle memory pushing him forward as he made his way to work, sat staring blankly at documents he couldn't decipher, and answered monotonous phone calls, all in a poor attempt at resuming with his aimless life. But it wasn't working. None of it was working because he knew the girl was real. That girl was his daughter and she was alive and well, _living_ near him somewhere.

Maybe he was just too depressed, or too tired, but he knew he had to fight. He had to fight for a way to reach her. His muscles twitched with the desire to move, his tongue itched with the desire to speak, but Rod couldn't find the energy or the words.

And then suddenly the call came. And it was about her. It was about his little girl.

As he drove, Rod's mind fluttered at the thought of her. She was all grown up now, though. Her hair fell down in gentle tresses past her shoulders, curling up and ending just above her chest. Her eyes still glimmered in that way he'd always remembered they did, so wide and curious. She was so frighteningly beautiful too, a haunting display of her own mother. Those gentle features were carved from the same stone as hers, only ladened with even more grace and beauty. A glorious pair of wide, blue eyes stood as the only imprint of himself on his daughter's face.

But then he had noticed the bruises. And she'd had so many. Each one chipping away at a bigger piece of his heart.

His chest thumped with excitement, hands gripping the steering wheel so tight his knuckles bled white. He was still in his work suit, his briefcase thrown carelessly onto the backseat. After he had answered the phone, sat quietly for about ten minutes listening to what the female voice said on the other end of the line, Rod had picked up his belongings and sprang right out of his office door, not even leaving a single explanation behind him.

This was his daughter they were talking about. His **daughter**.

The world was pale outside the car windows, windshield wipers sliding madly from side to side, parting away heavy streams of water in a frantic attempt to clear the view of the street in front of him.

Car tires screeched to a halt, and then Rod was hastily shutting the engine off, not even bothering to reach over for the umbrella on the backseat before he was already out and jogging towards the front door of a building.

The sign on the glass door read _Sorry, we're closed _but he reached out his hand anyway, ringed his fingers on the handle and took a deep breath.

This was it. This was the place.

"_The __restaurant__ will say it's closed,"_ the girl had said on the phone. _"Just ignore it. I got the place cleared up for the two of us to __speak.__"_

Rod swallowed, pulling on the handle before making his way inside. His eyes landed briefly on the clock hanging on the wall straight ahead. It was 3 pm now. Sharp. He'd made it just in time.

Suddenly, he heard someone sigh, his eyes following the sound and landing directly on a tan woman sitting alone in a booth, fizzy energy drink in hand while she drank from a clear straw. The girl eyed him quietly, not offering a single greeting or welcome, just her leg crossed over the other as she waved her foot from side to side.

"Um," Rod adjusted the tie around his neck. "Are you Ymir?"

The girl nodded her head slowly, not once drawing her lips away from the straw.

Finally, Rod cleared his throat, wiping his feet on the welcome mat a few times before making his way inside the building.

It was a restaurant. Quaint. He imagined it must be bustling with life regularly, but right now remained nothing but the ghost of what it could've been. The place was dark and barely lit at all. The remnant smell of food was the only other thing that occupied the space besides himself and Ymir, and the sounds of her sucking dully on her straw.

As he approached her, Ymir studied the way he walked. Mild. Gentle; a slight droop in his shoulders indicating defeat, or tiredness, much like the little droop she'd caught on Christa's shoulders when they first met. He hesitated for a moment, so Ymir beckoned for him to take the seat across form hers.

He was short too. No wonder Christa was so damn puny. He was even shorter than that one little prick Connie Ymir used to work with (and had always fucking detested).

Quietly, she eyed the way he pushed back his glasses up to the bridge of his nose before finally taking the seat before her. Ymir squinted at that. Hmm. Those weren't there before. The rims were thick and black, clearly quite expensive, and it made his eyes look like two bright, blue suns shining behind the glasses.

Ymir cleared her throat.

"So," she began, setting her energy drink down on the table. "Do you remember me?"

Rod blinked tiredly at her for a second, his lips drawn in a stern line before responding, "Yes."

She snorted. "Yeah, of course you do. I slammed your fucking head against a wall."

Rod eyed her directly, not a shift in his posture or expression as Ymir cleared her throat again, feeling quite uncomfortable.

Okay, so the guy must be smart (he was a fucking lawyer for Christ's sakes), but he was definitely slow or something. He was staring at her as if she had words written on her face, and he was trying to read them.

He narrowed his eyes at her then, like he couldn't see her well at all, and Ymir couldn't read his expression clearly, so she chose to speak again.

"I presume you have some questions," she told him, leaning back a little on her seat.

He nodded. "I do."

"But," she said before he could even finish speaking, "I go first. And you don't dare interrupt me – Got it?"

Rod blinked his eyes at her, not a slither of surprise drawn onto his expression, as if he'd expected her to treat him that way. As if he _knew_ she would treat him that way.

"Yes," he agreed calmly, too tired or perhaps too impatient to argue.

"First," Ymir held up her index finger, "I want to know one thing. When I called you to inform you I know about your daughter, why didn't you just call the cops? Why not put me on trial and get me arrested or something? You know she's under-aged, so why not charge me with assault for hurting you or kidnapping her or some shit?"

"Because," he replied simply, sighing mildly through his nose, "I know who you are, Ymir."

Ymir gawked at him blankly, her brain not quite processing the information until suddenly–

"You what?"

"Yes," he said. "I know who you are full and well. Even before you met my Christa."

Ymir scowled. _His _Christa?

"Well, then," she crossed her arms over her chest, "How is it that you know who I am?"

"Ace," he replied. "I worked with him. I've been the group's lawyer for quite some time now."

Ymir narrowed her eyes at him. "Really?"

He chuckled dryly, and Ymir clenched her jaw at the sound of his laugh. It seemed fake. Half-assed.

"I've come to know all the members from working on a few cases," he said. "Your name always came up a lot. You were branded one of the best among them, so I always remembered you. I'd never seen your face before though, so it took me a while to recognize who you are. I never thought I would actually get to meet you – Especially under these circumstances."

"Well," Ymir uttered before he could continue saying more, "so you know I've quit the group too then, I presume."

"Yes," he nodded. "I also know you've been stealing money without permission from your own account for some time now."

Ymir's hands clenched into fists, her jaw tightening painfully and eyes flaring with annoyance. The bastard. He was going to use that against her now. The fucker was going to turn the tables and coerce her instead.

But he smiled (much to her surprise) and gave her a reassuring nod before saying, "Don't worry. That's all confidential. I won't try to use it against you in any way."

He'd practically read her mind too. Fucking lawyers. She didn't trust his words –she didn't trust a single ounce of him– but her jaw untightened slightly and her fists gradually began to unclench.

"So you're not a client then?" she asked carefully.

"No," he said. "Quite the other way around, actually."

"Fine." Ymir took a sip from her energy drink. Fucking Reiner. Why did he call him that, then? "So you know who I am. Congratulations. Now, It's my turn to know you."

Rod sighed at her words, trying hard to be patient. He didn't have to take it, but he did. Just for his daughter. "Very well, then. Ask away."

"No," Ymir shook her head slowly, a tiny smirk dawning on her lips. "You ask your questions now. Mine go after. Best way of knowing someone is to see how they think, right?"

"Alright." Rod didn't even bat an eyelash. "Then I'll go first."

Ymir swayed her hand before them in a gesture as if to say _"please"_.

Rod began to speak, "First, I would like to know: What is your relationship with my daughter?"

_We fuck long and hard __all __day then go clubbing __every __night __and __party until we're fuck__ed and __plastered,_ she was so tempted to say.

"I'm a friend," she replied instead, shrugging a shoulder lightly. "I've known her since the day she first came to this city."

"Right," his voice was breathy and shaky all of a sudden, burgeoning with thick emotions, "And how was that? How did you meet her? When did she first arrive here?"

"Two weeks ago," she said dryly, watching the way his Adam's apple bobbed inside his throat as he swallowed. Oh, god. Please don't fucking cry. I'll jam your head against the table if you cry.

"Two weeks and a day, actually. I met her when I went out to take a cigarette break at my old job."

"The one you got fired at," Rod added.

"Yes," Ymir spat, clearly peeved. "That one."

"And how so?"

"It was raining," Ymir sighed, her eyes flickering to the downpour past the glass door momentarily before landing back on him. "It had been raining pretty heavily the entire previous day, and that morning, the rain was getting pretty bad when I'd decided to go outside."

"And then you met her there? Just outside the building?"

"Yes," Ymir breathed, almost incredulously. "As funny as it seems, sir, she was just standing right there beside me the whole time I was out smoking that damn cig. Then she'd started talking to me out of nowhere, telling me how cigarettes can kill me."

Rod seemed to share her own amusement now. He chuckled lightly, eyes brightening with the thought of his daughter. "She must've read that somewhere," he mused. "No one ever smoked back at home so there was no way of her knowing that."

"Probably," Ymir said flatly, her mind pricking with annoyance at his choice of the word _home_. "So I took her out to eat after that. I could tell she was hungry. Oh, and you should know: she couldn't even afford to pay her own food."

Rod's eyes flashed, wounded. "What?"

"That's right. I payed for her, though I didn't really mind. Oh, and she kept carrying around this little princess suitcase with her too."

"Princess suitcase?" he echoed, eyes wide.

"Yep," Ymir nodded. "The one you got her when she was small, I take it."

He gasped, and there was that shaky, breathless laugh of his again, his eyes gleaming with a smile.

Do not cry, you asshole. _Do not fucking cry in front of me or I swear– _

"That's so funny," he whispered silently, almost seemingly to himself.

"Is it really?" Ymir's tone was serious now, her gaze dire and austere. "You think that's funny, sir?"

Rod stammered, struggling to find his words before Ymir interrupted him again.

"You know, Christa had fatal bruises all over her skin when I found her. Bruises that _still_ haven't faded from her body up to this day. And they** hurt.** They hurt her every single day. Did you know about that? Do you know why that is?"

Despite Ymir's heated words, Rod's eyes narrowed at her carefully, unaffected. He eyed her quietly before mustering a confused, "_Christa?_"

"Yes!" She stopped, remembering why the man was so confused. "Oh, and that's another thing too. She used a fake name when she first came here. Relinquished her old one and scattered it entirely."

"Why?" Rod asked, seeming hurt.

"That's what _I_ said. Why would she stoop so low as to dispose of her own name? Her own identity? I was mad when I first found out – Disappointed in her, but then I kind of accepted it when I understood why."

"She should honor that name," Rod said, speaking as if Christa's actions were an assault on his own integrity, "It carries her identity and importance. Why would she discard it so carelessly?"

Ymir looked at him straight in the eye, her golden eyes blaring like the sun. "I don't know. But I suppose that when you're used to being beaten like a sack of shit you kind of eventually convince yourself that you_ are_ one, right?"

Rod swallowed, his eyes set downcast and brows furrowing in thought. Ymir's words were harsh, but they were the truth. And that is what this man needed right now. The cold, hard truth.

Still, Rod said nothing, and Ymir sipped from her straw a few times before speaking again. "When I first met her, she had so many damn bruises. They were everywhere, but most of the ones in her arms and the one in her face have faded by now, at least. However, she's got this one bruise," she motioned to the side of her own leg, "right here by the side of her right thigh. Too fucking big to have been from someone's fists, if you ask me."

"So you think..." the man's voice was quiet, "That she had been beaten with something else instead?"

"The first time I saw it, I thought it must've come from a kick or something. But then it hit me. I've seen enough people getting beat up to know when someone's been beaten with an object."

Rod's pupils shrunk. "An object?"

"Yep," Ymir took another sip from her straw. "She never admitted this herself, but I'm pretty sure her mom beat her with something the day she ran away. Probably the closest thing she could get her dirty hands on."

"Like a book?"

"Or her own shoe," she replied rigidly. "And your daughter? She was naked when all this happened too. There was nothing to protect her. Maybe this will give you an idea of what she had to go through in her life. And I'm sure you haven't got the slightest fucking clue of how much it hurts to be beaten with something, especially when you're stark fucking bare."

She scowled at him, not aware of the glower that had settled onto her own face as Rod planted his eyes on hers. He looked torn, utterly broken apart from her words but Ymir offered him no comfort.

Good. Let him feel pain. He needed to understand what Christa had gone through.

"Now," she sighed, "I don't expect you to explain to me why you left her. I understand those are matters that don't concern me at all, but I can't help but wonder: Why didn't you help her?"

"Her mother–"

"You're a lawyer, aren't you?" she interrupted, agitated. "Don't you have enough money to send her? Or enough power to sue her mom for not letting you talk to her or something?"

"No, I–"

"Let me guess," she jeered now. "You found another woman. A better one. You got married and had kids and then life was so much better and brighter you couldn't bother to raise your own little girl. Was that it? Was that what happened?"

Rod's lips pursed into a very tight line, brows furrowing with irritation. "Let me speak," he demanded, voice thick and serious, and Ymir shut her mouth.

Good. He was angry now. Just what Ymir wanted.

That's when he began to tell her. Thirty whole minutes passed by as the man began to explain, and Ymir's hair had already dried at the ends by the time he had finished.

Once, Rod had had a wife, two sons, and a very comfortable life. Supposedly, he was very young when all this happened, but he was happy. Suddenly, however, on a very uneventful day, a car skidded over their lane on an icy road in the middle of winter, slamming directly into the back part of his car and killing both his sons and wife.

He was alone after that. Poor little Rod was all alone then, until he met a gorgeous woman with flaxen hair and a huge, bright smile. He told Ymir of how he fell in love, lived with her for a long while before one day finding out she was pregnant, in which time he decided they should marry. The woman declined, something about being against marriage or some shit Ymir didn't quite catch. Then they had little Christa, moved away from the city and lived happily in the woman's childhood home.

And then, that's when things began to change. The lady got abusive towards him, but just never his daughter. Money, money, money. That was all she ever thought about. Marriages sometimes go down the shit hole, and that's what his did (even if it wasn't officially a marriage but Ymir got the point). He left, and moved back into the city to finish his Law degree and find himself a proper job.

After that, he sent nearly every cent he ever made to her and Christa. All he lived on was bread with sugar and soups. Poor man, Ymir had thought, before snapping the fuck out of it. Oh well. Life was tough for most of us, wasn't it?

But then he told her how the money never seemed to be enough, no matter how hard he worked or how many cases he won. So he started getting involved with dirty business, serving as an attorney to alleged gang leaders and drug dealers since they paid a him lot more money. (That sure as hell explained why he was be involved with Ace and everyone. God, shit was finally starting to make sense now).

Still, it never was enough, and the woman never allowed him to go over and see her, despite the fact he hardly ever even had the time. Rod almost began to cry then, explaining his frustration. Ymir still wanted to slam his head into the table if as much as a single tear streamed down his face.

So then, when Christa was just eight years old, Rod sent over someone to keep an eye on her and to take care of her and make sure everything was okay.

"Frieda?" Ymir asked then, eyes growing wide.

Rod opened his mouth, a shaky breath escaping him before he nodded his head, enthused. "Yes!" he exclaimed. "Yes, Frieda. She told you about her?"

"Oh," Ymir heaved, taking a second to process the information.

So it was her father. _So it was Rod Reiss who had done that!_

"Yes," she replied. "Yes, Christa spoke of her a lot."

Rod scoffed happily. "Oh, that's great. So did she like her? What did she say?"

Ymir swallowed, her throat suddenly tightening as she felt that familiar lump that had rendered her useless the night before. She cleared her throat, managing, "Many things. She said many things about Frieda."

Then Rod eyed her quietly, expectantly, and Ymir swallowed with the preparation to say more words. She knew she at least owed the man that much, even if she didn't want to speak any further for fear that her voice might catch and crack.

It was just... It was unbelievable. Oh, what Christa would do if she found out it was her father who had sent Frieda to her all along.

"Frieda taught her how to write and read," she told him, "and _God_, you should see how much that girl loves to read. That's all she does. Ever. Just read and read and read whatever books she can get her hands on."

Rod chuckled, a keen little laugh rumbling past his throat as his eyes gleamed profusely, drowning within a sudden apparition of tears.

Ymir stiffened. Oh God. She didn't know what to do, or how to feel, but she suddenly felt like crying too.

She squeezed her eyes shut. Don't be such a baby, Ymir. _Don't be so __weak__._

"That's great," Rod uttered, his voice strong and solid despite the tears in his eyes. "I'm so happy she liked her. I know Frieda loved her very much – she would always keep me up to date with how she was doing. I knew Historia was going through a hard time, but Frieda never mentioned her ever being beaten severely. I wonder why."

"Perhaps she just didn't know," Ymir said. "Perhaps Frieda wasn't very much aware of it. Christa told me things got really unbearable after she left. That's when her mother really lost it."

Rod set his cobalt gaze downcast, tears finally escaping him.

"That's all my fault," he said, not even bothering to wipe his tears. "I should've known. I should've known not to be so wrapped up in my work as to become oblivious to her state. I should've done... _more_. **I should've done more**."

"But you thought about her," Ymir voiced, suddenly empathizing with him. "Every single day, you thought about your little girl, right?"

"Yes!" Rod nodded vigorously. "Yes, that's right! Every day I lived only for her, mustering whatever way I could to reach her."

After a moment, Ymir sighed, uncrossing her arms from over her chest. "I'm certainly in no place to judge you, and I don't feel that it's even in my place to do so. But if you care to know, I think Christa still wants to see you. I asked her today if she wanted to leave this place forever, and she said no. There's something here that's keeping her in place, something that's keeping her from moving forward..."

She raised her eyes to see him, gazing at him through the heavy fringe of her dark lashes. "Do you know what that may be?"

"Me?" he asked, pointing a finger to his chest.

Ymir nodded. "That's what I figured."

"Before I left," he said, pushing up his glasses, "I gave her a tiny piece of paper with the address to my new home in this city. I don't think she could've kept it, but I made sure Frieda reminded her of this somehow. That she had a father waiting for her here."

Ymir stared at him, the blaze of her eyes cooling to thin ice with slow comprehension.

She gasped quietly, her shoulders tensed, her pupils broadened. It all... It all suddenly made sense to her.

_So that's why_. **That explained everything!** Why Christa came here of all places. Why she trod on aimlessly like a lost puppy, hoping maybe that Daddy would find her before she had the misfortune to get lost or die or...

It all made sense...

And it all suddenly made her feel _**sad**_.

Ymir was quiet. Direly so. She couldn't speak. She couldn't voice the words that had to follow because she suddenly felt sick, suddenly felt like crying.

"Ymir," Rod said after a while, noticing the shift in her expression. "Are you alright?"

"I..." she began to speak, but her stomach twisted the wrong way and her throat ached with a tightening knot that was driving her crazy. Fuck. She cleared her throat. Swallowed.

"I will ask my questions now," she voiced rather tonelessly. "Now, it's my turn."

"Of course," Rod said. "You can ask me anything."

"Just..." she shut her eyes, taking a deep breath, "just one thing. There's just one thing I want to know."

Rod waited patiently for her to speak. "Yes?"

"Historia..." Ymir uttered, and the name felt foreign on her tongue, as if she were speaking in another language. And yet she voiced it, because as foreign as it felt, it was a name that belonged to the only person who had ever understood Ymir's own language, and _that_ made her name as much a part of her as her own self.

She looked deep into the man's eyes, at once pronouncing her only question... The one thing she's ever really wanted to know for sure. The only thing her wasted brain could never fully muster...

"Your daughter..."

Rod blinked.

"What was she like when she was a child?"

* * *

A girl with flaxen hair playing in the wind, her blonde tresses bouncing and dancing with every leap and long stride of her legs. Little hands reach up to touch the sky, but they're not quite long enough to reach it. Her laughs and giggles permeate the air, filling the field of grass she played in with more colors than the flowers did themselves.

Her little hand covers the sun, rays beaming through the spaces between her outstretched fingers. The hand is too small to cover all of it, so she laughs. She laughs. Not because anything is actually funny, but because, at that age, everything just is.

She sings little songs of her own invention. Humming lah-dee-dah's and gentle hmm-hm-hm's to herself. The tiny composer of her own music. The master of her own song.

Then her father digs his hands under her armpits, pulling her up as her little legs swing up the air. He props her up over his shoulders, and the little girl swears she can see the entire world. The sky, the sun – they were closer to her reach as long as she was up there. And as long as she was there, sitting on her father's sturdy shoulders, everything was fine.

Everything was safe.

A heart at that age knows no pain, only wonder. Only curiosity and a burgeoning desire to live and to discover.

That's how it should be.

And _t__hat_ was Christa. That was her as a little girl.

It's not that Ymir had imagined her to be any different, but hearing it now, coming from the mouth of someone who had witnessed it for themselves, Ymir couldn't help the little lump in her throat, the smile dawning in her lips as she stared gleamy-eyed at nothing, imagining the perfect little child in her head.

As Rod spoke, Ymir listened. And as if her own sanity depended on it, she cherished and imagined it all, picking up on every trace of his stories as if she were piecing back together a broken mirror, one scathing shard at a time.

And then Ymir closed her eyes, exhaling deeply through her nose.

That little girl didn't exist anymore. She'd been stolen from the world. It's the kind of injustice Ymir has loathed her entire life.

Adults. Most of the time they don't even know what the fuck they're doing. Christa's mom eradicated that child, stripped her bare of her hopes and her little chants of music. She stole her away from her books and from the fields of grass and from all of her little harmonies.

And why? Because she was a selfish, thoughtless bitch. Both Ymir and Rod agreed on that, at least.

Kids that age shouldn't have to know what it's like to be treated like they're useless. Life will teach them enough of that on its own eventually as they grow. But who would've known... Christa would have that taken from her so early on.

Ymir had never had a childhood, she knew this well herself. So it was as if hearing Christa's happy days made what little happiness she experienced throughout her youth Ymir's own; as if she had been there to live it all along with her, even though she hadn't. Christa had lived, sang, and laughed for the both of them. She'd had a childhood for them both.

So Ymir slowly opened her eyes, planting her golden gaze on the man that spoke before her. They'd been talking for a few hours now. The day had grown gloomier outside, and when Ymir glanced back at the clock, she saw that it was almost six o'clock. Light was finally fading outside, replaced by the artificial glows of lampposts and buildings.

This man. His mouth opened and closed with the formation of words, but Ymir's ears no longer caught the sounds of any of them. Just the muted sight of him, and every shift in his expression as he spoke of the thing he loved most dearly in the world... The one thing they both shared in common.

Christa.

It was then, that Ymir finally decided.

"She sounds..." her words rose against her inner silence, disrupting Rod's speech. "...Just the same."

His black eyebrows raised in question. "Really?"

"Yeah," she heaved, not even fighting the mildness of her voice. She was being vulnerable, but Ymir didn't care, really. Ymir simply _**was**_. "You know... All excited and happy. She still sings like that sometimes. And she's always finding the stupidest things so fucking fascinating. It blows my mind, Rod. But I guess... I guess that now it's good to know why. It's good to know she's always been like that. That no one has ever stolen that away from her."

Rod was silent, eyes setting downcast and landing on the chipped table between them. Ymir had just said his name for the first time, but he didn't think she noticed. She had finished her energy drink long ago, and was now sipping on some water instead, still not an ounce of food inside of her, but it's not like she was really hungry at all.

"What I wouldn't do to see her," Rod said suddenly, speaking almost only to himself. "Seeing her last night was almost like a dream, you know. I can't begin to explain how much I've longed for that moment. And to know... To know that my Historia is well and happy and safe – if only for the past two weeks – that means the world to me, Ymir."

His eyes looked up then, deep blue oceans meeting the golden glares of suns. He stared intently at her, and Ymir didn't even bother to look away when he thanked her.

"Thank you," he said. Ymir couldn't help her scoff.

"No," she shook her head, "No, sir. Helping your daughter's been no problem for me at all. If anything, she's helped _me_. In more way than I can count, believe me."

"What is she like?" Rod asked after a long pause. "My daughter. What are the things she's into? Like art? Music? Books?"

Ymir swallowed, slightly temped to resume the conversation but, viewing as the sun was already disappearing outside, and the rain had gotten only a bit milder, Ymir realized she couldn't afford the time.

_Time_...

Time was finally running out now.

"Why don't you go find that out for yourself?" she asked him suddenly, and despite the fervor she tried to thread through her voice, it still came out sounding faint and fragile.

Rod stared at her then, his features not quite reacting to her words until suddenly–

"Really?" His voice was so tight with excitement, Ymir couldn't help her laugh. Fucking man just mimicked his own daughter perfectly.

But then her laughter faded, and Ymir was left alone and naked in the room. The vestiges of pain, dread, and sorrow all began to rekindle (more like burst) to life, and Ymir couldn't bear to fight against them. They just _were_. They were as much a part of her as her own arms and legs, further extensions of herself she could never sever without losing herself completely in the process.

There was nothing left to do now. Nothing left to do but to craft her own salvation. No matter how bad it hurt. Ymir was selfish, brutal, reckless – But only _she_ could change that. It was all entirely up to her.

_Her life, solely in her hands. _

She stared off at the floor, eyes stinging but never fully developing the tears that screamed for existence. No. Ymir wouldn't cry. Not here. Not now.

"Your daughter," she began, eyes still staring off before they widened suddenly. The words died within her throat, because her eyes suddenly landed on something precious, something they felt they'd known forever, but they flickered as if they were discovering something new for the first time.

They landed on the seat where Christa had first sat down to eat with her on the day they met. She smiled slightly – because she really couldn't help herself at all. That day seemed so far away now, like some far-off dream that never really happened. But it did. And it was real, because Ymir's chest tightened as she closed her own eyes, ripping her gaze away from the seat and the girl, swearing for the umpteenth time that she could hear her voice.

"She likes coffee a lot," she said, slowly opening her eyes to see him, "but this morning, she accidentally dropped the coffee pot and broke it. I've been meaning to buy her a new one, but... Do you think you could do me a favor and buy her one instead? I don't think I can afford to steal any more money from my account."

Rod eyed her, not sure what to make of her words. But eventually, he nodded, face still unreadable but his voice was gentle and soft. Understanding. "Of course," he said, "I'll do anything."

Ymir smirked.

"Good. Then listen close, old man."

She leaned in closer, a blazing concentration flaring in her eyes despite her inner anguish.

But that's just how Ymir was. You could put her through a fire, and she would never let you know that she'd been burned, even if her skin was still in flames. Even if your own eyes could still witness the catastrophe...

The girl always stood. Tall. Persistent.

"So," she told him, hands resting on the table before she interlocked her fingers in a manner that meant business, "_t__his is what you're going to do..._"

* * *

How funny was it that Rod already knew who Ymir was, even though she didn't know **him**? And that one day, his daughter would run away from home, and land suddenly on Ymir's lap. How funny was it that their paths would be crossed like this? Like three overlapping lines of fate that would bind their strings together.

How funny was it that Ymir would be falling in love? Through the course of two short weeks, Ymir would fall madly in love with a girl. With the daughter of a lawyer, and the same man who had all the power to destroy her.

Yes... Funny. _Real_ funny.

It was on that night, however, that Ymir suddenly understood:

The course of nature and all living things – they didn't all follow their own careless accords like she thought they did.

All nature followed a pattern, a carefully woven pattern that bound all living things together, as if by many eternal threads. All nature followed a routine, where one shift of the wind affected the rain at the other end of the world, and where the slightest change in the river's flow affected the way the entire waters stilled. The sun didn't rise and fall as it pleased, it followed its own natural routine. All things were bound together, no matter how small, and they all eventually amounted to the culmination of everything we know. Of this sad, pleasant, marvelous, little world we call our home.

Everything... is connected.

Every single drop of rain holds a correlation to another. The same way all instruments play together in an orchestra – each individual one filling a different role, only to amount to a single string of music. The entire **world** was music. And now she could understand why Christa loved it so much. Now, she could see why Christa held such an infatuation with music.

Because music _breathed_ life.

And Christa _was _life.

Every living thing held a unique song. Each person, the master of their own tune. Ymir... finally understood that. Nature was not only _wild_, it was careful and fragile as well. Just like Christa. Just like **her**.

And there was hope. Within everything, there was an underlying purpose.

There was a purpose for why that blonde boy would approach her on a random starry night, when Ymir swore she wanted to kill herself. There was a purpose for why Rod Reiss would one day leave his daughter, only to let her suffer and only for him to struggle to make ends meet at a stressful job.

And perhaps... Perhaps the reason was so that one day Ymir would get sick of her job, and Christa would change her name and run away from home. Maybe the reason was solely so that Ymir would one day be lucky enough to meet her, and their individual paths would beautifully intertwine, and their unique songs would combined in perfect harmony and become one.

And Ymir would love Christa. And Christa would save Ymir, all by herself.

And Ymir would give everything she had, everything she owned, every little, minimal part of her up, just to protect her. Just to keep her safe. Because Christa was her salvation. Because Christa was her light.

She wanted to give everything to her. _**Everything**_. All she ever had. Without a single desire for anything in return. And that was the most selfless thing Ymir had ever managed to accomplish – throughout the course of her turbulent, troubled life. Who would've thought... her broken soul would one day find peace and redemption within the arms of an angel? Her own angel. One too good to be true. But she was real. She was truth.

Christa was all the truth Ymir had ever known.

Love was fucking crazy, really. Ymir had never in a million years fathomed she would be a victim to one of its spells. She'd heard Reiner say once that if it didn't change you completely, it _revealed _you. But Ymir never believed that. She wasn't a good person. Not like that. Christa was an exception. The **only** exception, and that is why Ymir did what she did.

That is why she stood before Reiner then, her hands digging deep into her pockets as she gawked at the blonde boy in silence.

He was staring at her, eyeing her in a very fearful way. Not necessarily out of a fear _of _her, but _for_ her.

_It's meant to be this way_, Ymir had told him, or perhaps she'd only told herself. She couldn't remember whether she'd actually voiced it aloud or not. But Reiner was handing her her leather jacket anyway, and a thin envelope with all of Ymir's money inside. All the money she'd earned throughout the years after she'd joined them. It was all in there. All written down in a simple check directed to _Historia Reiss_.

"Ymir," Reiner sighed, and his voice was weighed down and heavy, mournful as if he was losing something dear, like a piece of himself. "Are you really sure about this?"

"Yes," she replied. "I am."

Reiner was very quiet then, standing with his arms crossed over his chest. It was a moment before either of them spoke again.

Ymir was the one to break the silence. "Don't look so sad, Blondie," she teased. "You've got a whole damn gang to take care of now. Leaders don't get all mopey and shit over stuff like this."

He sighed.

Ymir gave him a full smirk, kicking his boot lightly. But eventually her face settled into seriousness as well, because Ymir understood the weight of what she was doing. She sighed. The world was pitch black outside. She knew that, even from within the windowless kitchen of the restaurant.

"The apartment," Reiner voiced faintly, "What do you want me to do with it?"

"Whatever you'd like," she said. "Just don't get rid of any of the books. I need them."

Reiner squinted his eyes at her. "Ymir, you don't even like to read."

"No," she chuckled, "I sure as hell don't. But I know someone who does. I think they'll make great use of them."

"Hmm," Reiner looked down at the floor, all emotion scrubbed clean right off his face.

"Is all of it in here?" she asked him, running a thumb over the envelope.

"Yes," he replied solemnly. "Everything."

"Good," she said. There was a lot of money in there. A lot. She slipped out the check and stared at it, Reiner had written down the exact amount. That was all her money. All of it. God, it sure as fuck looked like a lot now that she eyed the written digits. She finished filling it out, signed it, then slipped it back into the envelope without closing it. She wouldn't close it yet. Didn't feel right. Didn't feel like she was quite done with it just yet.

"Here," Reiner said, handing her a wad of cash he fished out of his back pocket. "I would've given you a card, but I know you said you couldn't afford the time, so... Here you go."

"What's this?" she asked, already knowing what it was. Reiner wouldn't let her leave without a little extra cash. The boy was practically predictable – or maybe she just knew the bastard all too well.

"A little gift from me," he told her as she took the money, "Consider it some extra recompense. I know you'll need it."

Ymir was tempted to argue, but her body was suddenly too tired to muster a single word. Or maybe it was her mind. She didn't know – she couldn't tell the difference anymore. Tonight, her heart was attached to her brain and her brain to her hands and all her organs to every single part of her body. She wore her insides on her skin. One tap on the shoulder and she felt it _everywhere_, as if she were a lake, and the slightest pebble thrown into the water caused endless ripples to agitate the whole surface.

"Please be safe," Reiner told her, staring straight into her eyes.

Ymir scoffed, but she didn't say anything. _Alright_, she would've said if she could talk. But she couldn't. A small part of her almost couldn't believe what she had just done, if she was really honest with herself.

She thought faintly of Rod Reiss, who was already busying himself by doing what she'd told him to. He followed orders like a trained dog, but Ymir guessed that perhaps, to some extent, he sort of was one.

She sighed. Her hunger was finally catching up to her, and her body was feeling weak (her brain was too, since apparently all of her insides were now tragically connected).

"Are you hungry?" Reiner asked her, almost as if he'd read her mind. But he hadn't. Ymir knew what he was doing. He was trying to buy them some more time.

She sighed. "No, don't worry about it," she said, not even allowing herself to be tempted by the thought of food, or another second longer spent with Reiner. "I have to go now. There's one last thing I have to take care of, you know."

Reiner smiled faintly. "Yeah," he said, "the girl."

"Yep," she confirmed, running a hand through her hair. "The girl."

Ymir stood with him for another quiet second, eyeing him from head to toe. He'd gotten so much taller, and she almost hated herself for not noticing before. His hair was still the same, never-changing, but his face had gotten more serious, his body harder and more rugged, and Ymir realized she'd gotten used to him. To his scent. To the way his smile unveiled a row of perfect, straight teeth, every single time taking her by surprise.

She cleared her throat, and finally willed herself to thank him. "Thanks, Reiner," she said. "Thank you for everything. I know I haven't been the easiest person to deal with, but I'm grateful for your help."

Reiner nodded imperceptibly, eyes glued to the floor. He didn't say anything, so after another moment, Ymir finally began to leave.

"Wait," he said, suddenly grabbing hold of her arm.

She stared at him, startled.

"Please," he hissed, screwing his eyes shut. He put a lot of pressure into the word, as if he were trying to seal a water leakage with only the force of his voice. "Please, Ymir. Please take care of yourself. I don't want to hear you've been taken down by any gangs. I don't want to find out your past finally caught up to you.

"Please," he looked at her then, and Ymir could see the red veins in his eyes. "_Please, _take care of yourself."

She scoffed. "Don't you know who I am?" she asked him, but Reiner was immune to her tone. She swallowed. "Reiner, I'll be fine. I know how to take care of myself. You know that."

Her voice was growing smaller, so she cleared her throat again. Reiner didn't let her go, and his eyes finally fell onto his own hand. He squeezed Ymir's arm tighter. She winced, felt the pain shoot through her entire system.

She could've held his face. Heck, she could've planted a big, wet kiss on his forehead for the way he was staring at her, all puppy-eyed, but Ymir didn't budge. She'd given the kid enough kindness for her own standards. So instead, she leaned in closer to him, whispered, "I will. I promise you. I promise I'll be okay. I'll stay alive. I'll... I_..."_

She was suddenly struck by a strong wave of pain, and this time it felt as if it was coming from inside her. She screwed her eyes shut, swallowing dryly and spitting out the words, "I promise you. _I will do my damnest to live_. I won't ever try to take my own life again. I will live.** I will live**. No matter what I have to do, I will honor my life, Reiner. I promise you. I'll honor it."

Reiner blinked at her, brows knitting together in concern. His lips formed a tiny pout, cheeks flaring red with something Ymir couldn't really decipher. She's always been gifted with reading people – but not today. All that was long gone by now, as if she'd been broken down to tiny pieces and washed down a drain.

"Bye, Reiner," she said, slipping her arm out of his grasp. "Thank you again for everything. Thanks for helping me, and for allowing me to use all my account money, and for letting me quit the gang without killing me." She chuckled dryly, "And please make sure to take care of your boyfriend. God knows Bert gets himself into a lot of mindless shit."

Reiner choked, laughed, and Ymir closed her eyes at the sound of his laughter. It ringed deep within her ears – a happy sound. She swore to always remember it, the same way her ears had engraved the sounds of people's screams into her brain. But only this time, this sound was nicer. This sound was being emitted from a friend.

She stared at him, imagining his reaction when Bertholdt would finally go up to him and asks him out. A small part of her wished... that she could be there to see it. To make fun of him and tease him when his face flushed and his cheeks would flare all red.

"We'll be fine," he told her, glancing bashfully at the ground. And that was it. Those were his last words to her.

Ymir was already turning around swiftly on her heels, trotting out the kitchen and through the front door. The door slammed shut behind her, and Ymir began to walk under the storm once again.

As rain pelted onto her, water seeping into her hair and clothes, Ymir recorded into her brain every single one of Reiner's features, taking mental note of his face, his smile, his voice. She stored him safe within a secret chamber in her mind, and then simply kept on walking.

Then she laughed.

Ymir had finally turned into Christa. She was memorizing the face of a man she swore she would never see again.

* * *

"_You will open an account..."_

The sky was crying.

"_It will be under Historia's name. This account will belong only to her..."_

The streets were flooding. Ymir's clothes were drenched. Rain fell mercilessly over her and covered the entire world.

"_I will write a check. The money in my account will go straight onto hers. No exceptions. Do you understand?"_

Ymir and the world were one now. All nature was the same.

"_I will only ask you for one thing, Rod. I will give you your daughter, only if you promise to do this..."_

She walked slowly. Lighting exploded in the sky, flashing like a thousand cameras capturing pictures of the heavens.

"_You will love her. You will cherish her. You will protect her, and you will remind her that she's very special..."_

Ymir was breathing heavily. Her frame heaved and bloated with every labored breath. Her chest hurt. She was cold now. Everything hurt.

"_You will remind her of this every single day..."_

Christa, she said. Christa, Christa, Christa, Christa.

"_She will go to school. She will get a license. Teach her how to drive, how to make friends, how to be happy. Teach her all the things she should've learned growing up, Rod. Teach her what it's like to have a parent."_

She floated onward like a brainless moth drawn to a flame. Stupid. Empty. There was nothing left of her at all.

"_The money I give her will go towards college. A car. New clothes. Anything she wants – but just make sure she goes to college."_

But Ymir still didn't cry. She couldn't. The rain streamed down her hair, her face, her arms.

"_This is... very important to me."_

She held the leather jacket over her shoulder the entire time.

"_You will make sure my account is emptied out and transferred into hers. I expect you'll use your power and connections to make all this possible."_

She didn't even realize she'd already reached her home. Time didn't exist. Ymir didn't exist.

"_And then..."_

She touched her back pocket, and felt once again for her keys. Walking up the steps, she realized she was still whispering the girl's name.

"_And... Um..."_

Christa, Christa, Christa. Like a fervent prayer.

"_And then finally you'll..."_

Ymir pushed open the door.

There was no light, and she could hardly see a thing. She slowly stepped inside, closing the door shut behind her.

Where. Where. Where is she?

Her brain mustered questions. Her entire body began to hurt. Ymir was famished, starving – but not for food. She was aching. She was aching for something else.

Lightning boomed outside in the night, a blinding light flashing through the windows, illuminating the entire apartment in a burst of white.

Ymir was dripping on the floor. Not just because of the water falling off her hair and clothes, but Ymir was so exhausted, she felt as if she was physically _dripping_.

Wasting away, one small drop at a time.

Lighting flashed again.

That was when she saw it.

A figure standing by the window. Small. Ymir blinked a few times, but her heart was already beating out of her chest before she could fully decipher it.

She marveled at the figure's form, its faded outlines and gentle curves, every bend and twist on the ghostly shape...

The tiny slope of her spine...

That tiny slope that led somewhere...

For a second, Ymir thought she was dreaming. She blinked again, and then the world suddenly made sense to her. Reality screamed into existence, and Ymir saw the gasping presence of her.

Ymir finally saw _**her**_.

Now, Ymir could see clearly.

Now, Ymir found her voice.

She gasped, the sharp intake of her breath swiftly replaced by the sound of her own voice after she opened her mouth, tired vocal chords bolting to a wake for her to utter...

"Christa?"

* * *

**A/N: **I incorporated some tiny bits from the last chapter into this to show how much Ymir has changed, and what aspects of her have remained the same. Humble Ymir makes me feel all sorts of feels. Also, I've been meaning to point out how all nature is connected, like every drop of rain holds a correlation to the other and how the tiniest gust of wind somewhere alters the entire way the wind flows, just to show that Ymir's previous theory at the very beginning of the story was wrong. Nature doesn't always flow to its own personal accord, and we would be surprised if we knew just how many things are actually connected around us.

Ymir having an epiphany is just... I don't know what to say. I just don't know what to say. I teared up a bit while writing this. One more chapter guys... Just one more chapter after this.

**PS: ***in a tiny whisper* yay christa's back!

**PPS:** _BY THE WAY!_ Idk if you guys like listening to music as you read, but I have some playlists I listen to while I write and I have a specific one I've been listening to for this story. I put the link for it in my profile page in case you guys would like to hear!


	8. Part VIII

**A/N: **Hi. So, as it turns out, this isn't the last chapter. The things is, this scene between them is so poignant that I just had to give it its own part. It didn't feel right to add anything more to it, so this whole part is only one scene. No line breaks. Just these two and the story ascending to its climax before finally reaching the end. I suppose we can view this as the first half of the last chapter? Because technically, that's what it really is.

I listened to _Gold Star Mothers_ by Hammock non-stop for this one, especially for Christa's speaking parts. Truly beautiful. Enjoy!

* * *

_"You embody all that I've ever loved in another person, and I just can't let you go."_

* * *

**.: Rain :. **

.: Part VIII :.

* * *

"Ymir?"

Christa's voice was soft. Delicate. Hardly even there.

_Like a dream._

"I've been waiting all day for you," she said, and Ymir closed her eyes to the sound of her voice. God. She was there. She was real. Everything hurt, but Christa was okay. She was safe. Ymir didn't know why, but somehow, she'd convinced herself that something bad had happened to her while she'd been gone. Like an injury. Or a nightmare. Or some dire situation that could never be atoned.

Ymir swallowed, throwing the keys and jacket on a table by the door.

Christa didn't even shift in the slightest. She just stood motionlessly by the window, her shadowed form the only spectral apparition before Ymir's eyes.

Slowly, Ymir removed her shoes before flinging them uselessly to the side. She slipped the thin envelope out from inside her jeans, where she'd tucked and cradled it against her body, shielding it from the storm. It was a bit damp, but dry for the most part. She cleared her throat, placing the envelope on the table as well before shrugging out of her jacket. Ymir was _soaked_. The only sound breaking the silence in the air—besides the drumbeat music of the rain outside, and the occasional clashing roars of thunder—was the sound of drops of water splatting onto the ground after falling off her clothes.

"Christa," she breathed, slowly making her way to approach her. Her voice was hoarse and caught, barely escaping her, and uttering the girl's name was like learning how to speak anew. As she walked to Christa, lightning boomed outside, echoing and flashing a white burst of light into the room through the windows.

That was when Ymir finally caught a clear glimpse of the girl's face.

And _f__uck_. Just** fuck**.

Seeing her made something in her chest just... _collapse_. Just setting eyes on her felt like an incredibly daunting task. Ymir was left bare and desolate. Bereft. With nothing to shield her from the scathing beauty of _her_. So she averted her eyes to the side, for once, unable to bring herself to look at her.

Christa, however, stood her ground, not even moving a single inch. She didn't look angry, though, much to Ymir's surprise. Her features were fixed in a soft, mild expression, but that usual gleam of compassion in her eyes was no longer there. Something seemed... missing. Something had been stripped. Ripped right out of her like she'd lost something vital in the time Ymir had been away.

"I'm sorry," Ymir told her, stopping just by the sofa, not daring to get too close, as if getting too near the girl might burn her. She felt faint and fragile, like the slightest blow from Christa's lips might send her shattering onto the ground in a swarm of tiny pieces. She sighed, flickering her eyes between the girl and the floor, lacking the courage—and the strength—to look at her. "I'm really sorry, Christa. I know you must be so mad at me. I shouldn't have stormed out like that and left you. It's just—"

"Sit."

Christa's voice caught Ymir off guard. She cleared her throat and asked her, "What?"

"Sit, Ymir," the girl commanded, her voice a hair above a whisper, and yet stronger than Ymir's own. "Sit right here. Next to me."

Ymir didn't bother questioning her any further and complied, making her way towards her. Christa had already eased down onto the carpet on the ground, right by the window. She sat with her legs folded underneath her, like a little geisha.

Wincing, Ymir worked herself down to her knees. Her whole body hurt, as if it were being twisted and bent in half. She was dripping water all over the carpet, but she didn't care. It suddenly hit her: She'd practically been drenched all day. That morning when she took a shower, then stormed off into the rain. That afternoon when she took yet _another_ shower at Reiner's place before meeting Rod Reiss, and now all over again, after she'd walked under the storm. It's as if she was being washed, inside out, throughout the course of the last few hours. All the vile dirt being cleaned right out of her—but Ymir didn't like cliche's, and that analogy sure as fuck sounded like one. Reiner and Bertholdt would probably say the same thing. That she was changing. Becoming a new person.

She sighed. Reiner. Bertholdt. Her chest hurt a little just for thinking about them, so Ymir slowly shut her eyes, taking a deep breath, sitting down on the floor across from Christa. Having her there, right in front of her, Ymir could finally catch the girl's familiar scent. Flowers. Something mild. That same, intoxicating smell that was just _her, _and she slowly closed her eyes, exhaling deeply through her nose, trying to calm her nerves and the tremor that was beginning to ripple through her body.

"Are you in pain?" Christa asked her, noticing her expression, reading her like an open book.

"Yes." Ymir couldn't lie to her.

"And you walked under the rain..."

"Yeah..."

"Right into the storm. With nothing to protect you."

"I did."

"Ymir," Christa sighed, shaking her head, "you can be such a fool sometimes, you know."

Ymir scoffed softly at that. "I know," she whispered, agreeing with her, not caring that she sounded pathetic at all.

"You must think I'm mad at you," the girl voiced quietly, and Ymir slowly raised her eyes from the ground to look at her.

Christa's face was soft and hazy, dimly lit by the lamppost outside. The light cast a faint orange hue onto her profile, the dark shadows of water washing down the windows reflected onto her face, making her features seem as if they could be melting. But they stood, perfect and beautiful through the artificial stream. Untouched. Staring calmly and benevolently at Ymir.

She almost seemed unreal.

Ymir glanced down, suddenly realizing what the girl was wearing. It took her a few blinks in the dark to see it well, but Christa wore a black T-shirt nearly two sizes too big, her bruised legs stark and bare below her. Ymir almost didn't realize that the T-shirt was actually her own.

"But I'm not," Christa continued calmly, catching Ymir's attention once again, "I'm not mad at you at all. I realized something while you were gone, you know. I think I realized something special."

"Tell me," Ymir said, her voice soft and brittle, like cracking glass, threatening to shatter at any second.

"I want to stay with you," the girl pronounced, and the words pierced through Ymir's chest like a sword. She winced, physically, grimacing as if she'd actually felt the scathe of a blade passing through her. But Christa must not have noticed this, for she continued to speak: "I want to be with you, Ymir. No matter what. Nothing else matters as long as I am with you. I realized that while you were gone." Christa brought her hand to peel off a lock of wet hair that stuck to Ymir's cheek, her fingers lightly brushing against her skin, casing a shiver to trail down Ymir's spine from the contact. "Staying with you," the girl whispered, "is the most important thing to me of all. It's what I truly want, Ymir. Really. And I'm sorry. I'm so sorry because I know I should've told you this sooner but..."

"Christa," Ymir sighed shakily, closing her eyes. Her lashes practically stuck together when they settled, and it was becoming painful to even blink. "Please," she said, opening her eyes again to see her, "it's alright. I don't blame you. I know that what I asked of you was unfair. I know that you've got bigger needs than—"

"No." Christa held up her hand, silencing Ymir immediately. "You're not listening to me, Ymir. I mean it when I say this: **I'm staying with you**. No matter what. No matter where you go. I'll be with you. I'll be right there. Always."

Ymir closed her eyes again, her lips curving up into a gentle smile. "Really?" she asked softly, and perhaps she was being a little selfish, but she needed to hear those words come out of Christa's mouth. She longed to hear her say them the same way a man dying of thirst longed for a cup of water.

"Yes," Christa replied. "Being with you is the most important thing to me of all, Ymir. More than anything. It is all I want."

"So..." Ymir swallowed, and her body began to shiver from the cold. Her wet clothes were turning cold and frigid, sticking to her skin and making her feel as if she were being shrouded in a blanket of thin ice. She dared herself to ask, "So... you'll run away with me, then?"

"Of course," Christa nodded adamantly, not even batting an eyelash, and it suddenly struck Ymir how much she resembled her own father. She wore the same stubborn look he'd had on back at the restaurant. "Of course, Ymir. I'll even run away with you right now! We'll get lost. We'll find somewhere. Anywhere. As long as we're together, then everything's okay, right?"

Ymir closed her eyes and nodded. It wasn't until she felt something warm and moist rolling down her cheeks that she realized she was crying. "That just..." her voice was small, just on the edge of breaking, "that just makes me so happy. Really. To hear you say that, Christa. It means so much to me."

"With all my heart," the small girl voiced, placing a hand over her chest, "I mean it."

Ymir bowed her head down, unable to take any more. She felt her lower lip twitch, threatening to quiver. She was breaking. God, she was breaking when she needed to be strong.

And Ymir **had **to be strong. Now, more than ever.

It took a moment of silence between them, but eventually, Ymir finally willed herself to speak. Her words came out through strangled, helpless sobs, and she didn't even mind how pitiful she sounded as she sputtered, "I—I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry."

"Ymir," she heard Christa say, sounding very concerned. "What's wrong? Why are you crying?"

"It's just—" Ymir held a hand over her eyes and cried helplessly, her body trembling with every silent sob and she felt herself gradually fall apart. Damn it. She just couldn't help it. A single tear brought forth a horde of more tears, and she felt as if she were exploding, bursting, unable to control herself at all. She couldn't help but just allow herself to cry. For once—just once—to have everything plowing towards her and simply _feel_ it all. The raw, crude, bleeding aspects of herself. To just let them be. To just let _herself _be. She wept and wept like she'd never done before in her entire life, feeling her chest split apart and rip open like a hacked corpse.

After a while, she managed a long, shaky breath, trying to calm down a bit so that she could speak again. Her voice was practically lost inside her throat, but she pushed the words out breathlessly, slightly frustrated at the way her tone wavered with every word.

"It's just... that I've done so many things wrong, Christa. I've fucked up so much throughout my life and now..." She raised her head to look at her, and saw tears beginning to form in the smaller girl's eyes. She shook her head, trying not to let this wane her will, and uttered, "And now, I have to pay for the consequences, you see. We can't do it, Christa. We can't run away together. I know I asked you to, but I was just being foolish. We can't. We just can't."

"Why not?" Christa asked, confused, wiping at her eyes with the back of her small hands. "Why are you saying that, Ymir?"

"I've done terrible things, Christa. Horrible, horrible things. If you knew what half of them were—God, if you knew who I really was you would—"

"That's impossible," Christa interrupted, shaking her head. "I know you, Ymir. I know you. You're a good person. You are."

Ymir only cried harder. "No, Christa. No, I'm really not."

"Yes!"

"No, I— "

"Stop it."

Suddenly, a pair of small hands cradled Ymir's face, and her sobs ceased with a startled gasp. She hadn't expected the sudden movement, and the fervid manner in which Christa raised her head so she would look at her made Ymir's eyes widen in shock.

"Yes. You. Are," Christa whispered to her fervently. "You are good, Ymir. You are good. I don't care what you've ever done in the past. Heck, you could've murdered fifty people—but you're a good person. You are all that's good to _me_." She looked deep into Ymir's eyes, her cobalt gaze rippling with devotion.

Ymir's eyes closed by themselves, exhausted, and the golden orbs of fire vanished from Christa's view while she held her face in place, feeling how surprisingly icy Ymir's skin felt to her. How unlike her. Her face was cold in her hands. Too cold.

Slowly, the brunette raised her fists to grasp Christa's wrists gently, peeling her small hands away from her face with a long breath that conceded into fatigue. Christa didn't say another word though, allowing her to rip her hands away without any objections, knowing Ymir was simply getting ready to say more.

"I've already decided," Ymir said, opening her eyes, and now her voice was coming out stronger than Christa's. "There's simply no going back now. I've done what's best for you, and I will tell you what it is... but first, I need you to listen to me, okay?" She looked right into the smaller girl's eyes, her gaze piercing daggers into her as lighting flashed continuously and thunder grumbled loudly outside. She glanced out at the window. The light of the lamppost began to flicker.

"Promise me," she said. "Promise me you'll listen to what I have to say."

Christa nodded her head slowly, setting her hands over her lap and intertwining her thin fingers so that they would stay still. "I promise."

"Alright," Ymir said, then let out a long, heavy sigh. "I want you to know, Christa. I want you to know who I really am, all the things I didn't tell you since the day we met..." She sucked in a sharp breath, still shivering slightly, then began her explanation: "When I was sixteen, I killed a man for the first time. His name was Marcel. After this happened, his death stuck with me forever. From then on, nothing's ever been the same. My whole life, I've always been in gangs, you see. I don't know if you know what those are, but anything gangs do is truly heinous—or at least I can say as much. Still, I did it, because it was my own method to survive."

She paused to look up and study Christa's reaction, but the girl's features were unmoved. She just sat there, listening, nodding for Ymir to continue as if her confessing to killing someone wasn't the least bit heinous to her at all.

Ymir bowed her head down, lacking the courage to look into her eyes as she went on, "I know I told you once that you knew everything there was to know about me, but that just wasn't true. There is a lot I haven't told you—and I'm afraid that we don't have the time, but a lot of these gangs are coming after me now. They've been looking for me for years, and sooner or later, they'll find me."

Christa opened her mouth to interject, but Ymir quickly cut her off.

"Please," she hissed, "I told you to listen."

Christa closed her mouth, pursing her lips into a very thin line. She seemed uneasy, but still said nothing, furrowing her brows so that a tiny crease formed on the skin in between them.

It suddenly struck Ymir how much she looked like her father again. Jesus. Every time she made that face, it was like he was manifested right before her, and Ymir was reminded once again that we all carry our past—and our parents—in our own blood and features, regardless of whether we like it or not. The past is a burden each of us is forced to carry on our backs, no matter how hard we try to ignore it. It's there. Tattooed on our skins. Etched onto our brains, controlling the way we think and feel and function day by day.

Ymir continued, "If I have you with me when this happens, Christa, I'm afraid I wouldn't know how to protect you. I would give up my life for you in a heartbeat—I really would, but I just can't have you running anymore. You need stability. You need safety. You need a life."

"But Ymir—"

"Please," she begged, feeling tears stinging her eyes again. "Please, Christa. Just let me finish."

The smaller girl frowned, and the tears gleaming in her eyes proved that she was about to cry too. But she swallowed hard, drowning all her words back into her throat, making Ymir regret her silence. But she needed to listen to her. Right now, Christa just had to listen while Ymir still possessed the strength to say the words.

She said, "You see, my entire life, I have asked myself these questions: What is it about me that is such a repellent? Why do people scurry away from me and hide? Why can't I make them stay?

"_**What is wrong with me?**_

"Why do they avert their eyes away from mine? Walk away when I draw in? And why do I feel, every second that I am alive, as if I should just sink into the ground and disappear? Just let it swallow me whole?"

She shook her head, ignoring the tears that spilled from Christa's eyes and from her own. "I used to feel so embarrassed. So ashamed. I used to watch the way people ignored my existence and just feel utterly _useless_. Like wasted space. I couldn't even look into the mirror without feeling complete disgust. I understood why people all hated me. Even if I didn't really, I still felt that I did. I was disgusting. I was a plague. A pariah. And I knew that. I knew that with all my heart, Christa. With all of it.

"And then—" Her voice shook. She stopped, taking a deep breath.

_Be strong, Ymir. Be strong._

After a brief moment, she opened her mouth again, remembering herself, resuming, "Then, one day, I thought that maybe it would be best if I just killed myself. Put an end to it all. It was horrible, Christa. Terrible. I wanted death more than anything because I simply couldn't see any other way out. I needed freedom. Liberation. Release from all the fucking mess I simply couldn't endure any longer. And then, just as I was about to do it, everything changed for me. I decided to live solely for myself, and I wanted nothing more than that.

"Because I realized... I realized that I'm actually _afraid_ to die. I am actually scared of dying, Christa." She laughed weakly, but there was no humor in her words. "Isn't that funny? That a person like me would be scared of death?" Ymir looked out the window, and the storm was so powerful that the lights outside began to flicker once again. Funny, she thought, how the city managed to retain any electricity in the middle of that storm. It was hanging by a thread, clinging on while the rain ravaged everything in sight mercilessly.

Then she said something under her breath, and her voice was so soft that Christa didn't hear her.

She inched closer to her, and Ymir moved her head so that she could face her, saying, "I think I've realized something too, Christa. I think that... In the end, we all just want to be saved. Maybe by someone, maybe by ourselves. We all just want to be saved, no matter how strong or weak we are. It's just the truth."

Ymir looked down at her hands. "You see, Christa... I'm a liar. A thief. A criminal." She shrugged and shook her head, spitting out the painful words she'd heard her entire life with an ironic little laugh, "I'm a plague! I'm a fucking disease."

Christa's face distorted suddenly as she winced at her words and cried, shaking her head as if to say _no, n__o you're not,_ but not bringing herself to speak, obeying Ymir's orders not to interrupt her.

Ymir continued talking, knowing that her words her hurting the poor girl. But she had to tell her. She needed to say: "But I've... I've known this my entire life, you see, so I understand why people don't like me. It wasn't until I decided to live for myself that things really changed. People still treated me the exact same way, but it no longer hurt me anymore. Because my own happiness didn't rely on them! They could snub me for all they wanted, but they wouldn't even land a scratch upon my ego. Because my ego was just too great.

"So... I got used to being alone, because being alone meant being safe. Nobody could hurt me that way. It got to a point where I think I even started _enjoying _the fact that no one wanted me. That meant that I wouldn't have to spend time with people at all. So I was safe, in a way. I thought that I was happy. I wanted nothing more."

Ymir looked down at her hands again, then up at Christa. The small girl stared at her silently, listening intently to Ymir's words with her entire being, as if her whole body were made of ears.

Ymir closed her eyes and sighed, feeling her heart slam against her chest as she got to her favorite part of the story:

"But then you came, Christa," she voiced soothingly. "But then, I met you. And you spoke to me without a single care and"—she chuckled quietly, wiping away the tears on Christa's face with the back of her fingers—"for a second there, when I met you, I thought that I was dreaming. I thought, '_H__ow could a person like that want to talk to a person like me?__'_ And then, when you agreed to eat with me, and then to stay with me, part of me screamed that it was all just wrong. That I didn't deserve this. That you weren't even real at all.

"But you..." She closed her eyes, her own tears dripping off her chin and landing on her lap, dotting the already soaked fabric of her jeans an even deeper color. She shuddered from the cold, which was becoming quite unbearable. But Ymir continued on, holding a hand to her chest absent-mindedly and saying, "You are the greatest thing that's ever happened to me, Christa. You accepted me. You cherished me. You took me for what I was—for what I _am__—_even though we both know I'm not a good person.

"You taught me that being alone isn't truly the greatest thing in the world, and that there are some things that can only be taught to us by others. Like how to read. Or write. Or laugh.

"Or love.

"And... And... And I can't even begin to explain what that means to me. These past two weeks have been a blessing, and whether God exists or not, I will thank Him for what we've had. I know I want to protect you, and keep you safe. But with me, that's just not going to happen. It's just the truth, Christa. It's just the truth."

Ymir sighed, feeling very light-headed. She'd never talked like that in her entire life, but she mustered all the emotion she'd harbored into her words, hoping Christa understood them and not caring that she felt spent and utterly depleted by the end of it all. Because Christa was damn well worth it_—_she knew that for sure.

Then she heard Christa scoff gently, and when she raised her eyes to look at her, she saw that tears spilled profusely from her eyes. God. Her words were _really_ hurting her—they were hurting them both.

Ymir reached out her hand and placed it over Christa's, giving her a tiny squeeze to make her look at her, feeling how soft and small—warm and gentle—she felt inside her hand. Everything that's right in the world, right there within her grasp. But it was taking all the strength within her to hold on to her, and Ymir's body felt as if it might collapse under the slightest force.

"I've done terrible things," she said. "Many, many, _many_ terrible things, and they will come back to haunt me. Soon. I can feel it. My past is catching up to me, and I just can't have you in the way. So please... _please_ understand me, Christa. Please try to understand."

"No," the small girl said stubbornly, shaking her head. "Ymir, I just don't get it. I just don't. I'm staying with you. I'm staying with you no matter what!"

"Listen," Ymir said suddenly, holding up her free hand. "Can you hear that? Can you hear the rain?"

Both girls slowly closed their eyes, listening closely to the sound of the storm that raged outside the safety of their confined apartment.

Christa squeezed Ymir's hand in response. "Yes," she breathed, "I hear it."

"Every time it rains," Ymir told her, opening her eyes to look at her. "I will think of you. Of your little princess suitcase. Of all your different books."

Christa emitted a small, shaky breath that sounded much like a laugh, or a sob. Ymir wasn't sure. The girl's eyes were still closed, her hand still holding Ymir's tightly, afraid to let her go. She nodded slowly, as if her head were bobbing gently to the music of the storm, and a long moment of silence followed as they both sat, listening to the rain.

After a while, Ymir heard Christa let out a sob, and this time she was sure of what she'd heard. She opened her eyes again to look at her, realizing she'd nearly fallen asleep right there sitting in front of her. Ymir was so spent.

"I don't want to let you go," Christa told her. "I don't want to live without you, Ymir. I don't think that I can bear it."

Ymir smiled weakly, holding on even tighter to the girl's hand. "Oh, but you can." She brought her other hand to hold one side of the girl's face gently, her thumb brushing against her skin, feeling how warm and smooth her cheek was under the wetness of her tears...

How real. How undeniable.

"You're so much stronger than you think you are, Christa," she whispered to her. "So much stronger than you know."

"But what will I do without you?" the girl cried. "Where will I go?"

Ymir pursed her lips to keep herself quiet. Part of her wanted to tell her everything, but she couldn't tell Christa about the plan. Not yet.

"I took care of that," she said simply. "I'll make sure that you're safe. No matter what. I swear to you. You'll have a place to stay and to be happy. I've made sure of that."

"But, Ymir," Christa only cried harder, reaching out to retrieve Ymir's hand from her face. She squeezed both her hands gently, pulling back to cradle them against her chest the same way she'd done just the night before when they were going through her notebooks. She didn't say another word, and Ymir felt her heart shatter into many, many pieces. Unlike the previous night, she couldn't feel the girl's heartbeat on the back of her hands, only her chest trembling slightly as she cried.

God, she hated seeing Christa cry.

"Please don't cry," she pleaded softly. "Not for me."

Christa brought Ymir's hands to her lips and kissed them, sniffling a few times as she tried to control herself, but still crying like a little girl. Ymir realized how utterly torn and inconsolable she looked, and it hit her that she'd never seen anyone cry that way for her before. She'd never witnessed anyone ache so forlornly at the thought of having to live without her.

And that... That was so new to her. She almost didn't even know how to react.

The girl's lips gently grazed the back of Ymir's hands, and her voice was gentle and soft, a warm breath of life against her fingers as she suddenly whispered:

"_I love you._"

Ymir's heart stopped. Her mouth fell open, but she couldn't speak_—s_he couldn't even breathe. Because suddenly, Christa gazed up at her with those bright, blue orbs she had for eyes, and she said the words to her again.

"I love you, Ymir. I love you."

Christa scooted closer to Ymir then—who was frozen into place—pressing both her hands into her chest like she could fuse them into her body. "You've tainted and changed so much," she voiced. "For the better. Everything you've ever touched within me will never be the same again. My hands, my face, my body, my heart. My soul. No part of me is any longer unchanged because of you. We all want to be saved, and you saved _me_. You saved me, Ymir. I owe you my life, and I will always have you with me. Within me. No matter what I do, where I am, what I say... you will be the cause behind all of it. Because I love you. I love you with all my heart."

Ymir was flabbergasted. She didn't know whether to talk or cry. Or scream. She wanted to crumble right then and there, to come apart in Christa's arms and just let her hold her, but she held on to what little strength was left within her, closing her eyes and taking a deep, long breath, feeling the smaller girl's words fill her heart to the brim like a cup about to overflow with too much water.

Christa brought a hand to Ymir's face, grazing the frigid skin of her cheek with the tips of her fingers. The sensation sent ripples of warmth and comfort to form across her skin, and it suddenly dawned upon Ymir that she was feeling just like the lake in her nightmare that morning. Ymir was the lake—literally, _Ymir was the fucking lake__—_and every one of Christa's touches sent endless ripples of sensations to float about in every direction, washing across her entire system and rendering her weak, enslaved by the smaller girl's hands.

Christa leaned in a bit closer to her, saying, "I've always felt regret for all that had to happen to me, but I think now that I understand why it all had to turn out that way. Why my mom had to be so mean and Frieda and dad had to leave me. It all simply led me here. To you. I love you. I love you with every ounce of my strength, and I don't regret meeting you. I don't regret anything at all." She stuttered, shrugging her shoulders slightly as she allowed herself to cry some more. "Ymir," she voiced after a moment, "you embody all that I've ever loved in another person, and I just can't let you go."

"Christa..."

"No," the girl said, cutting her short. "Now, it's my turn to speak, Ymir. Listen to what I have to tell you."

She let go of her hands, scooting just a bit closer so that Ymir could catch every single one of her words, even as she said them just under her breath.

"When I was younger," she began, "I read a book once on theology. It wasn't very interesting, and I don't remember liking it very much, but I do remember one very important thing that it taught me: _**Everything**__** happens for a reason**_. Everything in life is connected. _We_ are all connected. All of us. Even you and me. And maybe we are all just part of a bigger plan. I'm not talking about God, because even _that_ I am not so sure of, but I speak of... of..." The girl was silent for a moment, searching for the words. Finally, she looked up at Ymir, and it was as if she'd read her own mind as she said, "A river. Like a current or a stream. Something strong that drags us along to our own unique destinies, and whether our lives are in our own hands or in the hands of others, the important thing is to be true to ourselves. Always.

"And you... You reminded me of that. You reminded me that—no matter what—my primal duty is to be true to myself, before anyone else. To honor even my own imperfections. And that those who truly love me will love me for who I am, and not for what I pretend to be.

"My mother doesn't define me," she said, "and neither does my dad. No one does. Only_ I_ do. And _I_ say that I'm important, no matter if any one else is willing to concur."

Christa closed her eyes, pressing her forehead against Ymir's and finding both her hands to press them into her chest again. A few locks of blonde hair brushed against Ymir's face as the girl pronounced in a quiet tone, "I owe all that to you, Ymir. Meeting you has patented down the course of my own life. You embody everything I love in this world. You really, really do. I love you, Ymir. I love you."

_I love you too_, Ymir nearly told her, but her mouth was no longer hers.

Because then, all of a sudden, Christa kissed her.

_**She kissed her**__. _

She claimed her lips with her own, and the soft presence of her mouth pressing against Ymir's was enough to steal all her breath away, like a lethal vacuum.

After a startled moment_—_where they'd both stilled, frozen into place_—_the smaller girl breathed out a sigh, pulling back to look at her. Ymir's eyes were wide, tired, stinging with tears and shock, so Christa brought her lips to kiss her forehead, as if she could steal all the worries from her mind with just her kiss alone. Right then, words were no longer necessary, and time stilled and dissolved into the space around them like a flame lost to the humidity of air.

Christa pecked Ymir's forehead gently, bringing her legs to straddle her lap. Ymir didn't even realize what was happening_—_her brain could process nothing at all. She could no longer see, because then the girl brought her lips over to her closed lids and kissed them lightly, feeling as they fluttered gently underneath, like the wings of a butterfly. Her kisses were gentle and chaste, planting tiny seeds of affection across her features, allowing them to sprout and bloom as she broke away. She pecked the tip of her nose carefully. Delicately. As if Ymir were the most fragile thing in the entire world.

Then she kissed both her cheeks, then her chin... her lips collecting every freckle, every scar, pouring into her flesh all the love and devotion Ymir had never witnessed, or ever even earned. She could feel the warmth of the girl's breath against her skin, the air escaping her in light, shortened intervals. Suddenly, it was as if she'd gone back in time to just the night before, when she'd laid herself beside Christa and fallen asleep to the sound of her steady breathing. But now, Ymir felt entirely different. She was no longer that girl from only the night before. She was entirely different now, in every sense of the word, and this small girl—this angel right in front of her—she still loved her all the same. Even though she'd seen the complete worst of her, Christa **still** loved her.

Ymir didn't dare open her eyes, wallowing in the sound of Christa's gentle breathing, feeling herself burn slowly back to life, like an extinguished flame gradually resurrecting. Soon enough, she found her own arms snaking their way to encircle around the girl's waist, holding on to her as if she'd vanish if Ymir didn't hold on tight enough.

When Christa's lips grazed Ymir's once again—the sensation igniting sparks across every expanse of her skin—Christa respired deeply and lingered, stayed, as if she were afraid to come too close, or to pull too far away. Her breath was dense and thick against her, and as Christa's lips found Ymir's once again, she revealed her very identity into her with such fervor that Ymir was left breathless once again_—_as if she'd been born only to kiss her, only to mark her lips with her own. She held Ymir's face in place, pulling her in closer as their kiss slowly deepened. Hesitantly, Christa began to open her mouth, inhaling Ymir's scent as their lips meshed and moved together, dancing along to some secret tune that belonged only to them.

Ymir had stopped crying.

She relished in the sensation of Christa's hands holding her face, of her pale legs folded by either side of her lap, her hips hovering over her in mild resistance, too afraid to make contact just yet. So lightly, so delicately, Ymir's hands began to move up her sides. Weakly at first—but then fervidly, her hands roving her skin; exploring, discovering, finding her warmth.

Feeling it.

Absorbing it.

Letting it _fuel_ her.

When she broke away to catch her breath, she realized just how much she really wanted her. Needed her. How every ounce of her body _ached_ for her touch. The girl's breath was hot against her forehead, melting her icy skin as both of Christa's hands sifted into her rain-soaked hair. They both struggled to even out their breaths, and the girl's chest heaved and bloated right below Ymir's nose as they held each other in their embrace. Ymir hid her face in the crook of Christa's neck, catching the heat and scent that radiated off of her like a halo of light cast around a small flame in the darkness. She thought briefly of how she'd felt like a brainless moth only moments before, being drawn aimlessly to a dying flame.

She didn't have to remind herself that the girl right before her was it. Christa was her fire.

They had never been this close before, this wrapped up and tied together, and it suddenly occurred to Ymir that it was all...

**Wrong. **

Christa held her in place, trailing soft, little kisses on her hairline, but Ymir couldn't help her sudden thoughts: it was wrong of her to kiss her. To want her. Because... Ymir would burn her. Tarnish her. _Break her_. Mar the pure binds that made her with her own vile dirt. She would ruin the girl if she went on any further—appropriate her purity and innocence.

The thoughts sent alarms to wail off inside her head.

_Pull back, Ymir. Pull back. You'll hurt her. _

_You'll ruin her, Ymir, **stop**!_

Instinctively, she snapped her head back and pulled Christa's hands away. Looking up at her, startled, she uttered, "We shouldn't, Christa. I can't. We need to—"

"It's alright," the girl whispered quietly, wrapping her legs around Ymir's hips so that she sat on her lap, entrapping her. Her voice was soft and controlled, contrasting Ymir's frantic, breathless pleas. "_Shh_," she shushed, sealing Ymir's lips with her fingertips. "It's alright, Ymir. It's okay, I promise."

Ymir held herself stiff, searching the ethereal features of Christa's face in the darkness. Then, when Christa gave her a reassuring smile—one of those that beam all radiant and bright just like the sun—it suddenly struck her how much braver Christa was than herself, and that she'd underestimated her by ever thinking that she resembled a naive little girl.

Her smile softened a little, her eyes crinkling slightly at the edges, before she moved up to kiss Ymir's forehead again, whispering to it, "Stop thinking. Don't think. Don't think of anything right now," as if her brain could hear and abide by her commands. Ymir laughed quietly, and when Christa repeated the sentence into her forehead again, her voice was much, much smaller, as if she were about to cry.

Ymir's hands framed her waist and pulled her back so that she could see her. The girl's eyes were hazy and soft, staring at her in mild adoration, and Ymir recorded the sight into her mind, clinging on to every one of her smallest details, idolizing them.

"Can I?" Christa breathed out suddenly, and Ymir's eyes moved to meet her gaze. She frowned, not sure what the girl was talking about. But then she remembered, and she smiled, nodding her head, mouthing out a _yes _through her smile_._

This time, when Christa pulled in closer for a second time, she was careful, hesitant; the sides of their noses brushing before their lips finally met, and they were tasting each other all over again. Every time they kissed was like their lips were meeting for the very first time. They were shy, cautious... Never too brash or too forceful despite the vehemence of their yearning for each other.

But then, Ymir felt Christa's tongue prod her lips, yearning coyly for entrance. When she responded by opening her mouth, granting her access—and their tongues finally met—it was as if a foreign force suddenly took over her, and Ymir found all of her strength.

She kissed Christa, tasted her, savored her, _breathed_ her in. Her body electrified by even the slightest of touches, pain and pleasure alike surging through her in arduous unison, alleviated by only the smaller girl's soft sighs. And when she heard her say her name, whisper it, heave it, Ymir flipped the girl onto her back so that she could roof over her body like a shelter. Her shield from any storm. Her own personal haven.

Looking down at her then, Ymir rediscovered the sole purpose of her existence, the realization breathing life into her anew. She felt reborn. Brought back. As if she'd died a long, long time ago and had only now returned to life. Every breath... every step... every move she would ever make from then on would all be aimed for her. For the girl. For her memory. For her unwavering light.

Even if she wouldn't get to see it anymore.

Their bodies moved, slowly, to their own accord... lead more by instinct than by thought, and it was as if nature ruled within them. The tidal waves swept them both, and they drowned, drowned, _drowned_ in one another, breaking the surface to gasp breathlessly for air.

Christa's legs were wrapped around her waist, and Ymir ran her hands down her legs, carving her fingers into her flesh, feeling her skin burn like fire. Christa nipped at her lips, her chin, sucking on her lower lip like there was no feasible way to get enough of her. She was hungry for her. Starving. Dying of a thirst that could never be quenched any other way.

Ymir was was enslaved by the way the angel gripped her shoulders tightly, dented her fingers into the blades protruding her back, pulled gently on her hair, tugged on her clothes to pull them off of her. After a moment, Ymir finally complied, moving back to pull her top above her head. The rumpled, damp sweater was flung uselessly to the side, and Christa pulled Ymir's T-shirt off her small frame with gracious ease.

She was naked underneath it, utterly exposed to her as Ymir hovered above her, gazing down. She nearly died at the dazzling sight of her, of her bare breasts, and her stomach, and the bruises, and her otherwise flawless, pallid skin.

She dove down to kiss her delicate shoulders, trailing her lips over to the smooth surface of her neck, hearing the girl sigh her name and breathe fire into her. Their skins plucked over with goosebumps, both of them shuddering as Ymir pressed kisses to her collarbones, her throat, that slope of skin that connected her shoulders to her neck, inhaling her smell and breathing in that aura that was just so fucking intoxicating, so fucking **vital**, so necessary for her to **live**, while Christa ran her nails up and down her spine.

She needed her. God, she really needed her. And when her mouth marked the skin of her breasts, and her thumbs kneaded circles into her hipbones, she heard the girl hiss and cry out in pain.

Ymir quickly broke away from her, stunned. Oh, no. Had she gone too far? Had she hurt her? The last thing she wanted to so was hurt her.

Damn it. _D__amn it, Ymir you always fuck everything up. You always_—

"It's okay," Christa breathed, reassuring her, her lips forming a tiny smile that even curved up her eyes. It was as if her whole face was smiling as she whispered, "I'm okay. You're not hurting me. I promise."

She took Ymir's hand in her own, brought it to her mouth, kissed it, then placed it flat against her cheek, closing her eyes as if she were listening closely to something precious, the way a child presses a seashell to their ear to hear the sounds of the sea. "Keep going," she told her, and her voice was light. A feather. The words of an angel.

Ymir ran her fingertips down Christa's arm, stopping just by a small, purple bruise marring the skin of her forearm. Ymir couldn't remember seeing that one there before. She frowned, eyeing the blotch of imperfection on the girl's milky, flawless skin, letting her hand hover over it before planting a kiss, chaste, right on top of it, as if she could erase from her body it just with that.

She could never fathom how such a tiny body could endure so much pain, so many ruthless beatings, and spend so many fucking years curled up in corners, cowering away and shaking, wracking with each new wave of wailing and tears. Christa, if anyone, deserved all the kindness in the world. So Ymir kissed her skin softly, making it her personal mission to show her all the love and gentleness she deserved.

She dipped down, parting Christa's legs to kiss every bruise that marred them. Even in the dark, she could still make them out. She'd practically memorized them, and drops of rain fell from her hair and to the girl's heated skin as she kissed her, her hands dragging over her skin, her lips drawing a map with every damp stamp of her mouth, as if Christa were the world, and every contusion on her skin were an island.

The girl arched her back gently, endearingly, and Ymir relished on the sound of her voice, of her soft moans, of her little whispers as her lips trailed up her centerfold, grazed her chest, then found their place upon her mouth again. They both sighed simultaneously, and Christa laced her fingers through Ymir's hair, some water dripping down onto her face as she peered at her through half-lidded eyes. _God_, how long she'd been dying to have her like this.

"Christa," Ymir sighed against her lips, her hand worming up to cup one of her breasts, "I love you."

Christa smiled, that familiar incandescent grin beaming as her lips stretched to the sides. "I know ," she replied all minx-like, eyes crinkling in modest delight.

Ymir snorted, diving down to pepper the angel's face with light, feathery kisses that had her giggling and squirming underneath. Her hand pressed down gently on her breast, and she could catch the faint _thump, thump, thump_, of her heart beating with life, with music, inside her fragile chest.

Christa ran her nails up Ymir's ribs, picking at her bra strap and letting out a little whine.

"Patience," Ymir said through a smirk, smiling at the way Christa pouted in response. She kissed the little pout fondly before pulling back to say, "Not yet."

Christa sighed, raking her hand through Ymir's wet hair. "I want you, though," she whispered. "I want you now."

Ymir closed her eyes.

Even behind her closed lids, Christa's presence still shone right in front of her. Like the sun. She could always see the girl without even looking. She was all the beauty of the world manifested right before her—as far as Ymir was concerned. More beautiful than nature. More beautiful than anything she would ever lay her eyes upon again.

Slowly, she allowed her eyes to open, moving to taste those lips of hers once more, to claim the angel as her own.

And then, Ymir lost. She lost herself inside the sanctuary of Christa's arms and surrendered, dying over and over and over again, resurrecting only to the sound of her name being breathed, gasped; of Christa's voice pulling her back into existence. The gradual ascend and descend of their chests, the playful push and pull between life and death, tune and song, rain and storm—they swirled and swirled and swirled; a swivel of emotions that reeled and danced inside of her and Ymir finally, _finally_, knew what it was like—what it was **truly** like—to be alive.

Inexplicably. Unforgivably. Undeterred.

They kissed. They kissed until their lips were bruised and throbbing, until all playfulness turned to seriousness, to _fear,_ the underlying weight of their situation resurfacing like a wooden peg held under water for too long.

And then they were fearful. Then they were scared.

_There was hardly any time left._

And yet, still, there was enough. Enough for Ymir to press her lips to Christa's ear and confess—her breath a warm wisp of wind against her skin as she whispered,

"You saved me, too."

* * *

**A/N: **Guys, really, thank you so much for your support and your reviews. I'm seriously humbled to know I evoke any sort of emotions from you. It makes me so happy to think that what I pour into this site actually reaches out and touches some hearts. I want you all to know that I cherish every single one of your feedbacks. Every single one. The next chapter will be the last one for sure, but I think it's safe to say that I kinda suck at predicting when my stories will end considering how this started out as a two-shot and now look at where we are _pffft_.

As always, thank you for reading/reviewing. It means the world.

**PS:** I actually wrote down in detail their entire love scene but ended up taking it out from the story because I felt it didn't go in well. I dunno. If you guys want to see it, please let me know. Maybe I can post it as a one-shot or something.


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